


Dean Winchester and the Hidden Staircase

by chabbit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 16:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chabbit/pseuds/chabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Winchester found the first letter, he used it as tinder for their camp fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When John Winchester found the first letter, he used it as tinder for their camp fire.

The second letter was thrown in the motel trash.

The third came with an owl that pecked his hands until he opened it. It flew away once he did, thinking its task was accomplished. It didn't see him tear it to pieces and make plans to move back to hunting in America, British omens be damned.

The fourth letter arrived the day that the Winchesters were due to catch the first flight out of Heathrow and was carried by a witch.

She was dressed in a way that made her look like an innocent Muggle, otherwise John wouldn't have opened the door when she knocked. Even so, he took a moment to examine her through the peephole and made sure his weapon was in his waistband. He motioned to his sons to get out of line of sight of the door before swinging it half-open, blocking the woman’s view of the room beyond. He barely managed to avoid glowering at her, instead putting on his best “innocent-bystander” look.

“What is it?” His voice was gruff. “I paid up front, and we have a plane to catch in a few hours.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Winchester.” John stiffened; he had used a fake name to check into this hotel. “But we need to have a proper discussion before you and your family vanish again. You’re quite good at that for a Muggle.” She smiled as if the compliment would somehow alleviate John’s tension, but all it did was make him slowly pull his handgun from his waistband and point it at her through the door.

“You have ten seconds to leave before I stop caring that we’re in broad daylight and shoot you, witch.” John hissed the last word as if it were the worst kind of insult that could possibly pass his lips. In the room behind him, he heard the faint intake of breath from Dean, the click that meant his son’s own gun was being prepped, and the slight shift of clothing as Dean got between Sam and the door.

“Mr. Winchester, this conversation doesn’t have to be difficult. And I have no intentions of harming you or your sons.” The witch still had a smile on her face, but her own hand had shifted subtly.

“Five.” The word was terse.

“Mr. Winchester-“

“Four.”

“Really, let’s be civil-“

“Three.” And John pulled the trigger.

A jet of water squirted onto the hotel door and dribbled on the cheap carpeting.

There was a shocked second of silence as John took in the fact that his perfectly lethal handgun had been turned into a water pistol. Then the witch sighed and said, “Now, that was quite rude. Shall we try again?”

John slammed the door closed and slid the chain into place. “Dean!” he barked, but his oldest already had his gun trained on the door and his brother behind him. John drew a knife.

There was a click as the deadbolt unlocked, the chain slid itself out of place, and the door swung open. John lunged with the knife, but there was a flash of red light that threw him back into one of the beds and sent the knife clattering to the side. Dean hesitated for less than a fraction of a second, barely long enough for the witch to open her mouth, before squeezing the trigger and firing at the woman who had so easily dispatched his father. John felt his chest swell with pride even as terror filled him and he struggled to his feet. Dean’s weapon was more effective than John’s in that it actually sent several bullets hurtling towards the witch, but they all stopped a good foot on the air before her and fell harmlessly to the ground.

“Enough!” exclaimed the woman, slashing down with a length of wood and shouting a nonsense word just as John got ready to rush her. The other occupants of the room found themselves unable to move, despite their best struggles, and other than a small whimper from Sam none of them could speak.

The witch shook her head and let out a huff of breath. “Honestly! I’ve heard that hunters were stubborn, but this is ridiculous. Sit down, all of you, and let’s approach this like rational human beings.” She waved the wand again, and the Winchesters found themselves being forcibly seated on the edge of the bed closest to her. They all looked at her with varying degrees of fear and determination. 

“Now, I’m going to remove the immobilization charm, and we’re going to have a nice, calm discussion.” Her tone was strict, but not cruel, like a teacher who was talking to a group of naughty students. Another flick of the piece of wood and the three victims found themselves able to move again. Dean instantly put his arm around Sam’s shoulders, who leaned into him while trying not to cry, and glowered at the witch. John barely resisted the urge to lunge at her again, stopped only by the knowledge that it appeared to be futile.

The witched surveyed the group and nodded. “Good.” The smile reappeared on her face, although the wand didn’t waver. “I apologize that this has been necessary. My name is Charity Burbage, and I am Professor of Muggle Studies at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here, Mr. Winchester, to speak with you about your son Dean and the fact that you’ve been ignoring our letters.” Dean stiffened slightly and looked at his father.

“Damn straight I’ve been ignoring your letters, witch,” John growled. His hand twitched as if to grab for a weapon, but there was nothing within reach.

“Mr. Winchester, I would appreciate it if you would cease saying ‘witch’ as if the word was poisonous.” John didn’t respond, so Professor Burbage cleared her throat and continued. “Now, since you have opened and hopefully read at least one of our letters, you know why I am here. Have you discussed the matter with your son?”

“Discussed wha-“ Dean began, but John cut him off.

“You are not turning me son into a witch, you evil bitch.” John glared at Charity as if his gaze alone could smite her. Dean jumped with surprise and looked at his father. John put a hand on his shoulder, to say “stay,” but made no other move to acknowledge him.

Professor Burbage sighed. “The proper term for a boy of our kind is ‘wizard,’ Mr. Winchester. And your son is a wizard whether or not you want him to be.” 

John’s grip tightened on Dean’s shoulder. “Do not insinuate that my son is a monster.”

To his surprise, Professor Burbage didn’t get angry at his insinuation, but merely looked somewhat sad. “I’m sorry that your encounters with some fool-hardy Muggles has given you such a bad impression of our kind, Mr. Winchester. But I can assure the kind of witch I am, and the kind of wizard your son is, are completely separate from the demon worshippers who give us a bad name. We are just people, like you, albeit it people with different abilities. Abilities that need to be trained. Haven’t you already begun to notice that your son is… different?”

“I’ve noticed nothing,” snapped John, but he didn’t look at Dean.

“Dad, I-“ Dean stopped as his father’s grip got tight enough on his shoulder that it began to hurt.

“Dean.” Charity’s tone was kind. Dean turned wary eyes to her, and she didn’t miss the loathing in them. “You’ve noticed, haven’t you? Things happening when you’re upset or desperate. Things that don’t seem normal, but might be explained away by luck or something else.” Dean clenched his jaw, but nodded. John looked down at his son, an incomprehensible emotion in his eyes.

“Dean, do not listen to this woman. You are not a monster.”

“Mr. Winchester,” Professor Burbage snapped, “If you refer to what we are as ‘monster’ again I will reactivate the silencing charm.” The insult had angered her this time.

“You’ve done nothing to prove to us that you’re any different from the monsters we hunt, witch. You’ve barged into our hotel room, knocked us about, and done nothing to indicate that you have good intentions. So give me one good reason I shouldn’t call you a monster.”

Charity took a deep breath to calm herself. “I have been trying to be polite, Mr. Winchester, and I apologize for disarming you. If you recall, you were the one who tried to shoot me. I do not want to have to do this forcibly, but I will if I have to. Your son’s abilities are beginning to mature, and if he doesn’t receive proper training he will truly be a danger to himself.”

“Dad,” said Dean warily.

“Dean,” said John with warning in his voice.

“Let your son speak, Mr. Winchester. This concerns him more than it does you.”

Dean looked at Professor Burbage and tried not to let the fear and disgust he was feeling show on his face. “You say that I’m a wizard and you’re a witch.” Charity nodded. “How is that different from the witches Dad- that we hunt?” 

Charity smiled, as if Dean had been in one of her classes and asked a particularly good question. “The witches that you hunt are not witches at all, but Muggles who have made pacts with demons. In exchange for their service, demons help them perform harmful spells. The kind of witch that I am is quite different. I’ve never even seen a demon, let alone made a pact with one. I was born with the ability to use magic; ‘witch’ is merely the female term for a magic user. There are good witches and bad witches, same as how there are good Muggles and bad Muggles.”

“What does that mean?” Sam asked. It was the first time he had spoken since the witch had entered the room. He was curled up against Dean, and to his credit the boy had not cried at all.

Charity turned her smile to the younger boy. “It means that your brother isn’t a monster, Sam. Neither are you.” John sucked in a breath, but before he could speak, Dean did.

“He understood your explanation. He wanted to know what ‘muggle’ means. You keep saying it but it’s just nonsense.” 

Professor Burbage looked surprised, and then laughed. The sound was strange with all the tension in the room, yet somehow Dean felt himself relax slightly against his will. No one evil had such a happy laugh. “Muggle is just a word for normal people who can’t use magic, Dean. Like your father.”

“Suppose I believe you.” All heads turned to John. “Suppose I buy that you aren’t evil. What proof is there that my son is a wizard?”

Dean spoke up, hesitance in his voice. “The shtriga, Dad, that was after Sam…”

“Anyone could have gotten it off your brother.”

“But, the shifter that got knocked off of you-“

“Lost its balance and tripped.”

“Your gun-“

“Fell closer to me than we saw it did. Enough, Dean.” John’s voice cracked as he tried to get his emotions under control.

“Mr. Winchester,” said Charity softly. John looked at her, and for the first time he began to consider that this wasn’t a hoax, wasn’t some elaborate plan to separate his son from him and put him with hell-bitches. “Mr. Winchester, I don’t know the details, but those all sounds like instances of immature magic running wild. Magic that needs to be trained. Hogwarts is one of the best wizarding schools in the world. Dean would be completely safe.”

“You aren’t taking my son away from me.” John’s eyes were hard.

“He needs to learn how to control his magic.”

“He can learn it with me.”

“Mr. Winchester, you don’t have the power to teach your son what he needs to know.” John opened his mouth to protest, but Charity interrupted before he could begin. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. If you’re worried about being separated from your son when you go back to America, I’m sure it could be arranged for him to attend a school on that continent. But he needs to go somewhere that he can learn how to control his magic before it becomes volatile.”

The room fell silent. John’s chest heaved up and down as he struggled to breath. It didn’t seem possible. He had seen strange things that happened when Dean got upset, sure, but this… this was too much. His son was something, something other than properly human. He didn’t know how to handle it. He released Dean’s shoulder, realizing how tight his grip had been, and rubbed his face with his hands. 

“What if I don’t let you take him?”

There was a moment when Charity hesitated. “There have been instances where Muggle parents refused to allow their children to attend school. It’s very rare for them to be hunters, but in those instances…” She took a deep breath, knowing John would not react well to what he was about to hear. “In those instances, we take the children anyway.” She continued hurriedly. “It really is necessary, Mr. Winchester. Untrained children’s abilities turn volatile, and can hurt the people around them severely.”

John knew that the witch could just take Dean away from him. It wouldn’t even be difficult for her; she had already proven that she could overpower and disable them with ease. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him, and he wished that he had answers.

“Tell me about this school,” he croaked.


	2. Chapter 2

Professor Burbage pulled a letter seemingly out of nowhere and offered it to Dean. He looked to his father, as if for permission, and John nodded. Hands shaking slightly, Dean reached over and took the letter as if it were a bomb that might go off at any second. He stared at the address on the front, which read:

Mr. Dean Winchester  
281 Charles Street, Room 12  
The Bed on the Right  
London

“Open it,” said Professor Burbage gently.

It took Dean several tries to break the seal. His fingers were trembling, and he couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger or another emotion, one that he knew his father wouldn’t approve of. Finally, he managed to control himself enough to pull out the sheaf of papers inside. The first sheet appeared to be a formal acceptance to the school.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Dean Winchester,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress

The three Winchester’s eyes scanned the page very quickly, noting that there was very little new information to be gleaned from it other than the names of the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress. The other papers were lists of strange books and nonsensical items. Once it appeared that the Winchesters had finished reading the letter’s contents, Professor Burbage spoke again.

“Hogwarts is a boarding school. It’s located in Scotland; it would be useless for me to say exactly where as Mug- regular humans can’t get close to it. It teaches children ages eleven to seventeen everything they need to know to function as members of the wizarding world. Students arrive by train, and can return home for Christmas and Easter, as well as during the summer. It’s a very safe environment.” 

John made a noncommittal noise and passed the paper in his hands to Dean, who played with the papers nervously in one hand. He kept one arm wrapped tightly around Sam’s shoulders.

“It seems like you’d be teaching him to be a magical weapon. How is that safe?” John asked. His eyes were hard, but he didn’t seem to be denying the idea outright anymore. Maybe he was just stalling, although Dean didn’t see any way for either of them to reach for a weapon. A small part of him wondered if he even wanted to dive for his gun.

Professor Burbage seemed surprised for a moment. “Weapon? No no no, most of what is taught at Hogwarts isn’t meant to be used offensively at all. Charms, Transfiguration, Potions- it’s all things that are meant to be used in day-to-day living or in future employment. We technically have a self-defense class, Defense Against the Dark Arts, but we do not teach the children violence.” She paused briefly, and then followed up before she could think better of it with, “You seem to have taught your boy that well enough at home.”

It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact (he had shot at the woman), but Dean felt himself growing angry again. This woman, this witch, had no right to judge him and his family. Before he could snap at the professor, however, John spoke up, although his tone was brittle.

“If I accept that this is necessary, what do I have to do?”

“Nothing, as long as you can provide a place to stay for your son during breaks. You’d continue to be his father, but he would stay at Hogwarts during the term.”

“These supplies, where could I get them? I’ve never seen anything like this stuff.”

“There’s a wizarding shopping area in London called Diagon Alley. I could take you there and assist you in buying what Dean needs. The school will also provide funds for the basics if you don’t have the means.” Charity paused. “Mr. Winchester, does this mean that you’re accepting that your son is a wizard and needs this?”

“It means that I’m considering my-“

“Enough!” Dean found that the word slipped out of his lips before he could stop it. The papers in his hand crumpled slightly as he tightened his grip. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here. This is my problem, not yours, Dad.” It took him a moment to realize what he had just said to his father, and then his face paled. “I- I mean…”

Charity looked as if she was about to say something, but caught the stony look on John Winchester’s face and thought better of it. John turned to her. “I’d like five minutes to talk to my boys. Alone.”

Professor Burbage hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right outside, though, so please don’t try anything stupid. Also” -she waved her wand, and all of the weapons in the room lined themselves up neatly on the table- “please don’t attack me again.” She inclined her head and walked out of the hotel room, closing the door softly behind her.

“Dad…”

“Don’t.” John stood and strode to the table with the weapons on it, but didn’t pick one up. His face was unreadable, but its lines were hard and there was a grim set to his jaw. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable. Dean placed the crumpled papers on the bed with trembling hands. Their rustling was deafening.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” John let out a huff of breath and planted his hands on the table. Dean looked at his father, surprise written on his face. When he really looked, however, he saw the way his father was shaking. Extricating himself from Sam, Dean went over to his father and tentatively put a hand on his arm.

“No, Dad, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- to…” Dean trailed off. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had done, or how this was his fault, but he knew that it was. Whatever was going on, it was because of him. He was responsible, was the one who had put his family, put Sammy, in danger.

John shook his head. “I should have seen this coming.” He pushed off from the table and Dean backed away to give him space. He stared up at his father, a feeling of dread in his stomach.

“What do you mean?” Sam asked. He had been quiet while Professor Burbage was in the room, but the youngest Winchester was just as afraid as his brother.

Not meeting either of his son’s eyes, John said in an oddly subdued voice, “Missouri… Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Right now, we need to decide what to do.” He cleared his throat and stood straighter, the rare display of weakness seeming to vanish. Dean found himself responding to his father’s body language out of habit, preparing to take orders and gravitating towards Sam again, to protect him. “It would be futile to try to escape or attack at this point. This witch has proven to be quite competent at defending herself and disabling us. For now, we’re trapped. We could accede to her demands and slip away later, perhaps, but it seems likely that she’s working in a group and would probably be able to track us.”

Dean didn’t want to say it. He knew that John was thinking aloud, and that this particular thought wasn’t one he wanted to entertain. But somehow, against all of Dean’s training, the words slipped out anyway. “What if she’s telling the truth?”

John’s eyes turned to Dean, and for a second Dean was afraid to meet them. When he did, however, he saw that there was concern mixed with the anger. “Even if she’s being honest with us, I’m not letting her take you away. If you need to learn how to control yourself, you can do it with your family.” Something was off about his tone, however. Dean wondered, for a second, if John was experiencing doubt. Maybe he wasn’t so sure that he could handle the situation.

“Yes sir.” The words came out of Dean’s mouth by force of habit. “I just… I don’t want to hurt Sammy.”

This time, Dean saw the doubt in his father’s eyes clearly. John Winchester was afraid, and Dean felt the fear as well. Magic was not a good thing. It was never a good thing. Witches were supposed to be evil. As hunters, they had learned that over the years. If Dean was a wizard, his initial thought was that he must be evil too. But he wasn’t. Dean would not hurt another human being without cause. And as much as they both tried to ignore the signs, John and Dean knew that Dean had something magic in him. Something John could not help him with.

“One year.” Dean stared at his father, and John took a deep breath. “I bet you can learn how to control… whatever this is in one year. And then we could vanish and pretend this never happened.”

Dean nodded, but before he could say anything there was a knock at the door. It opened and Professor Burbage stepped inside, wand held ready but not pointed threateningly. When she saw that none of the Winchesters had grabbed a weapon, her cheerful smile returned. “It’s good to see that we’ve passed the stage where you’re waving threatening objects at me. Now, have you managed to talk things out, or do you need more time?”

“It’s been decided.” It seemed to pain John to say the next sentence, but he managed to get it out. “Dean will go to Hogwarts.”

Professor Burbage beamed at them all. “Excellent! There are some arrangements that need to be made, then.”

“Arrangements?” John asked warily.

“Yes. To get supplies, set up the departure date, and a few miscellaneous things.” Now that it seemed to be going her way, Professor Burbage was quite cheerful. Dean got the feeling that she was generally an amicable person. Her good humor contrasted the mood of the Winchesters, whose faces were tense and serious. “Shall we talk logistics?”

Dean let his father take control of the situation again and returned to Sam’s side. His younger brother clung to him, but out of love and not fear. They both watched quietly as John and the charismatic professor discussed business. 

Sam was the one who broke the silence. “Does this mean you’re going away, Dean?”

“Just for a little while, Sammy.” Dean stroked his little brother’s hair. His baby brother, who he was supposed to protect.

“You’ll be back soon?”

“Of course. You’ll barely even notice I’m gone.”

After Professor Burbage had left and the Winchesters were settled down for the night, however, Dean found himself staring into the darkness and wondering how he was going to protect Sammy when he was hundreds of miles away.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean woke up when Sam rolled over on top of him. It was a regular occurrence, and normally Dean would have simply pushed his brother off and gone right back to sleep. The sound of his father’s voice, however, instantly brought him back to consciousness. 

“-know it sounds ridiculous, Bobby, why do you think I’m calling you?” Dean lay perfectly still and kept his breathing even. He’d had enough practice faking sleep that he could fool his father most of the time. John was keeping his voice low so as to avoid waking his sons, but he should have learned by now that Dean was a light sleeper.

“Well whatever the hell kind of witch this is, it isn’t the usual sort.” Dean heard papers rustling, and wondered if his dad had the letter in front of him.

“Not sure. She wasn’t murderous, but she stopped a bunch of bullets by flicking her stick thing.” The sound of John shifting restlessly made Dean wonder what Bobby was saying. He hated that he could only hear part of the conversation.

“I don’t know.” John’s voice was tired. There was a pause, and John sounded more irritated when he spoke. “I said I don’t know, Bobby!” 

It took a measure of willpower not to flinch and reveal that he was awake. But it wasn’t the anger in John’s voice that bothered Dean. John tended to get annoyed pretty easily. No, it was the note of panic, veiled by his trademark grumpiness that made Dean want to stop faking and go over to his father. But John wouldn’t want comfort, not from Dean.

Another pause, and then, “You haven’t been around these past few hunts, Bobby. You don’t know.” Oh god, they were going to start talking about Dean. Dean hoped that John wasn’t looking too closely at him because he was starting to lose his breathing rhythm.

“He lit up a changeling with a pack of _used matches_!” The last words came out as a hiss. “He didn’t notice, but I did! Who knows what else he can do?” Dean stared at the wall, no longer caring that he didn’t even look remotely like he was sleeping. He had done what? He remembered the panic, when the second changeling had rushed them after they thought the hunt was over, after they had put away the flamethrower. Looking desperately for something to light it up with, seeing the matches, grabbing them, frantic, there was no time and Dad was on the floor so he had lit them without really looking at them, thrown them and then felt relief as the real changeling mother went up in flames. Now that he thought about it, Dean realized he had never really even swiped the matches against anything, just tossed them after they lit because of… what?

“I don’t know if he’s dangerous.” Dean closed his eyes and listened again, fighting to get his breathing back under control. “I don’t know if he’s going to blow something up or hurt someone, and that’s why I need you to get that info.”

There was a long enough pause to make Dean think he had missed the sound of John hanging up. “I will.” He sounded pissed, and sure enough the sound of the handset being slammed roughly into its cradle a moment later made Dean jump. Knowing he wouldn’t be able to fake sleep after that, Dean sat up, rubbing his eyes as if he had just been awakened.

“Dad?” he asked. “What’s going on?” He hoped his voice made it sound like he’d been sleeping while his heart pounded a staccato beat on his ribcage.

It was enough to fool his father. “Nothing, Dean. Go back to sleep.” John’s face was harsh in the dim glow of the lamp, but there was a tiredness beneath his words that Dean didn’t miss. He also didn’t miss that John was giving him an order and there was no option of getting up.

Dean shoved Sam back on his side of the bed and lay down again. A moment later the light clicked off, and once again Dean was left to stare into the darkness and fight off negative thoughts. Just as he drifted off he thought he felt one of his father’s large hands on his head, but in the morning he couldn’t remember if it had been a dream.


	4. Chapter 4

The next week was tense. The Winchesters moved to a cheaper motel on the outskirts of London, since vanishing back to America didn’t seem like an option anymore. There was no doubt that the Hogwarts professor would be able to find them, even if they didn’t tell her where they were going. Without a hunt to occupy them the family spent six days trying not to step on each other’s toes. Dean carefully pretended he had never overheard that phone conversation while his father never brought it up. Although they mostly succeeded in not having any explosive fights, John’s temper was running hot when the day Professor Burbage was due to come calling arrived. 

It was to be expected. After all, they were about to make a trip into the heart of what John could only think of as “Enemy Territory”, even if the witch had called it “Diagon Alley.” Dean wasn’t sure if he felt quite so strongly about it as his father. So when there was a knock on the door, dread and curiosity were sharing space in his heart.

John opened the door and Charity walked in, glancing about the room with a look of disapproval. The mold and grime were certainly off-putting, but she had the good sense not to say anything about it. She also had the good sense not to say anything about Sam’s conspicuous absence. John had sent his youngest son to Father McLeod, Bobby’s friend and one of their contacts in London. Dean agreed with the decision whole heartedly. He wasn’t as suspicious as his father, but he did not trust anyone who could casually call themselves a witch with his little brother.

“All set, then?” asked the witch in a bright voice. Dean was amazed by her ability to act so cheerful with a hunter and his son, both of whom might shoot her at any point.

John grunted something unintelligible and probably rude in reply. Dean simply watched her. When nothing else was forthcoming Professor Burbage just kept her smile in place and led the way outside. She stopped awkwardly in the parking lot, looking around. “We ought to take the tube from here. We can get on a few blocks from here.”

John gave her a skeptical look. “Your secret magical society has a stop on the London Underground?”

“Of course not,” said Professor Burbage, completely unfazed by John’s open hostility. “Although building one has been brought up once or twice.” 

The trip was conducted in silence for the most part. Dean wondered if the people around them felt the tension, and thought they might. Everyone seemed to leave more than the usual amount of space between the trio and themselves. 

A few blocks from the exit they stopped as Charity checked some kind of watch looking thing that had planets instead of numbers. “It’s still early, so the crowd shouldn’t be too bad. Still, it is the month before term so I expect there might be a bit of a rush in a few hours.”

They appeared to be in a shopping district of some sort, but neither Dean nor John could spot anything off about the place at first glance. Professor Burbage led them across the street, and that was where perception for the two Winchesters differed. 

“What, you lot are hiding out in some abandoned old shop?” John snorted in derision, looking away and thinking how much he’d rather be somewhere else.

Dean glanced at his father, furrowing his brow. “Dad, are you okay? That’s not…” he trailed off, fingers itching. They had walked up to a pub, and although it looked a bit dingy it definitely did not fit John’s description of it. John frowned at him, eyes questioning. Dean shrugged slightly, not sure what to say.

Professor Burbage grabbed the door handle and then paused, looking at the confused pair. “Before we go in, I just want to make sure that neither of you are going to attack anyone today.”

John raised his eyebrows. “I won’t go after anyone if they don’t go after me. No promises.”

“Really, Mr. Winchester. Just don’t pick any fights, no matter what you see. I can’t be held responsible for what happens if you attack someone.” She met John’s eyes and held them. There was an intense moment in which the two did battle with their gazes, before John gave a curt nod. Upon receiving this signal that it was fine to proceed, Charity opened the door and led the trio inside.

The interior of the pub felt familiar to Dean. Although he was underage and not technically supposed to go into any drinking establishments, he had been inside of plenty and they were always the same. At first, the Leaky Cauldron looked just like some of his dad’s favorite haunts. Low lighting and a smoky haze made the shapes of the well-worn furniture indistinct. The few patrons had a suitably grubby look, but once Dean started looking at the people he realized the setting was where the resemblance to a normal pub ended. 

Most of the people at the bar and tables wore robes of one cut or another. The drinks had an odd look to them, and Dean could have sworn that someone was nursing a glass whose contents were smoking. Some of the patrons had a look to them that made Dean wonder if they were fully human.

Upon seeing that the inside of the building was nothing like the outside, John stood straighter. His hand found its way to his pocket, and Dean wondered whether he was grasping the handle of a gun or a knife.

“Morning, Tom!” chirped Charity. “Just passing through.” She led the way through the tables and chairs, mostly unoccupied, to a door at the back. On the other side was tiny courtyard, empty except for a lonely dustbin.

“So, Charity,” John said in a conversational tone with a hint of violence. “What’s with the illusion back there?”

Instead of being annoyed by his question, Professor Burbage seemed pleased. “Oh, you are a clever one, aren’t you! Shame you aren’t a wizard. That was an anti-Muggle shield. As you’ve gathered, we don’t like being exposed to the population at large. So, Muggles who walk past the Leaky Cauldron see an abandoned shop and just feel a little push to keep walking and be about their day.”

Dean looked at his father, a sudden understanding hitting him like a punch in the gut. If anything proved that Dean was something else, this was it. John didn’t acknowledge his son, but his scowl deepened. “You mess with people’s minds?”

Professor Burbage pulled out her wand and turned to the brick wall in front of them. “Yes, well, see how little you trust us? Imagine if every hunter and person knew about us. A lot of my people died in the witch hunts of the Middle Ages, Mr. Winchester, not just the kind of witches that needed to be hunted.”

The frankness of her words dismissed the topic. She traced the bricks on the wall, then tapped one. Nothing happened. A frown appeared on her face, and then she sighed in irritation. “Oh, really, this was a rubbish prank two years ago. Why are people still pulling it?” She poked her head inside the pub, and shouted, “Tom! Someone’s moved the bin _again_!” Glancing at the Winchesters with a look that said, ‘stay put,’ she went back into the Leaky Cauldron. 

Dean gave his father a look that asked, ‘do you know what’s going on?’ John simply shook his head and turned away. Dean felt a little twinge of hurt at his father’s dismissal. As the silence became heavy, he wondered if they would ever be able to go back to the way things had been before.

They were rescued from the awkward silence by Professor Burbage’s return. She was grumbling to herself as she flicked her wand. The dustbin shifted over about a foot, and she went over and tapped a different brick. What happened next made both the Winchesters jump. The bricks began to shift, unfolding with a grinding noise. When the motion stopped, the wall had changed into an archway. And what was on the other side…

Well. Dean had never seen anything like it.

Everything about Diagon Alley seemed to defy the laws of physics. For one, the entire place was squeezed into a space that couldn’t exist in Muggle London. The shops that lined the street had a bit of a misshapen look that made Dean suspect something magical was holding them up. The contents of the windows they passed were the most eye-catching: posters with pictures and words that moved, arrangements of broomsticks, books that were sorting themselves, and a seemingly infinite number of other wonders. The streets weren’t overly crowded, but almost all the people wore robes similar to those of the pub’s patrons. Only a few children, who Dean thought were probably there for the same reason as him, wore anything that might pass for normal on the outside.

Dean couldn’t help but be amazed. For a moment, he forgot that magic was supposed to be something wrong and evil that hurt people. _After all,_ he thought as he noticed a store that sold magical confections, _how much damage could Francis’s Flavor-Changing Lollipops do?_ Beside him, John was turning his head with a look of curiosity. It lasted only for a second, and then the faint scowl of distrust returned. But for a moment, both father and son had forgotten their hatred of the supernatural.

Their reaction had obviously pleased Professor Burbage, as she had a slight smile on her lips when she began to lead the way. The two Winchesters followed, careful not to bump into anyone they passed in the street. Although Dean didn’t trust that this was a safe place, he secretly wished that Sammy could see it. He got the feeling it was right up his alley. The shops were so cheerful and non-threatening that even John’s harsh exterior seemed to be fading a bit.

“Come on!” Professor Burbage called over her shoulder, “We need to get some money changed if you’re going to buy anything.”

“I have pounds. I’ve been in England for a while now,” John stated as he dodged around a group of wizarding children with flaming red hair.

“Wizards use a different currency,” Professor Burbage said, and she seemed to slip into lecture mode without realizing it. “Coins, instead of bills. Knuts are the smallest; they’re the little bronze ones. There’s twenty-nine of them to a Sickle, the silver ones, and seventeen Sickles to a Galleon. Those are gold. A Galleon tends to be worth about five pounds, but the exchange rate changes. It’s fairly simple stuff.”

“If you call that simple, I don’t want to know what’s complicated,” muttered Dean. Apparently Professor Burbage had better hearing than he’d thought because she let out a hearty laugh.

As they had spoken, Professor Burbage had led them to a large building made of white marble that Dean was certain ought to be visible from the outside. Above the doorway the words ‘Gringotts Bank’ were carved into the marble in large block letters. There was a silver plaque on the door that had something witty about not stealing carved onto it. Dean started to read it, but it suddenly became less important once Professor Burbage had pushed open the door.

Inside of the bank was grand, but that was not what caught Dean’s eye. It was the sight of the creatures inside that made him hiss in a breath and draw his knife almost unconsciously. They were short, wrinkly, and had pointed ears. Something about the look in their eyes sent chills down Dean’s spine.

“What are those things?” Dean gasped. John had controlled his reflexes better and hadn’t actually drawn his gun, but his hand was hovering on his waistband. Realizing that weapons weren’t a good idea at the moment, Dean shoved the iron blade back into his pocket before Professor Burbage could see it, although he kept his hand wrapped tightly around its hilt.

“They’re goblins,” she said, seeming unaffected by the sight of the ugly creatures before her. “They run Gringotts. Have a thing for treasure, they do.” Realizing that the Winchesters probably had a problem because the creatures so obviously appeared to be monsters, she added, “Don’t worry, they’re harmless. Well, unless you try to steal from them of course. Then they can be more than a little nasty.”

John looked about, and Dean could see him noting how the goblins interacted with their customers. He apparently reached the conclusion that they weren’t an immediate threat and released his grip on his gun. Dean took it as a sign to do the same, removing his hand from his pocket somewhat reluctantly.

Professor Burbage had walked over to a counter where a disgruntled looking goblin (or was that just the way its ugly mug was built?) was counting a pile of large gold coins, and John and Dean had no choice but to follow.

“Can I help you?” grunted the goblin, noting something down and then scooping up the coins.

“We’d like to exchange some Muggle money, please,” trilled the professor. 

The goblin turned its eyes to the trio, lingering especially on Dean. It made a noise that might have been construed as one of disapproval. Professor Burbage began to discuss the exchange rate with him, and Dean took the opportunity to look around the bank. The place gave him the impression that wizards were very, very rich. Other than the piles and piles of gold coins that various goblins seemed to be counting, there were gem stones and intricate objects that he could tell were extremely valuable, even without knowing their function.

“This money was stolen.” The goblin said it as a statement of fact. Dean turned back to the conversation at the words, suddenly nervous. Professor Burbage looked at John with surprise and faint disapproval. Then she glanced at Dean, expression unreadable. He folded his arms and looked to his father, saying nothing.

“No.” The word came of John’s mouth as if on reflex.

The goblin looked over its glasses at them, and Dean had to fight back the itch to attack it again. “I don’t particularly care where the money came from. How Muggles earn their wages is of no concern to me. I just thought I’d make it clear that stealing anything here would be… extremely unwise.”

“Yeah, I saw your sign,” drawled John. There was a moment of silence in which the goblin, the professor, and the eldest Winchester stared each other down.

Then the goblin began to count out money and the moment passed. Professor Burbage seemed to be reevaluating the Winchester duo, but she made no comment. A few minutes later they walked out, with John handling a bag of coins curiously. “These can’t be real gold.”

“No, it’s quite real. Goblins are very particular about their gold.” Professor Burbage had taken the lead once again. “We charm it to feel lighter than it is. Otherwise carrying around coins for anything but the smallest purchases would be a hassle. There’s also a spell on it to keep it from being changed in the Muggle world.”

John made a faint sound of acknowledgement, but didn’t speak again. Dean, meanwhile, was feeling his own curiosity about the shops around him grow now that the strangeness of the whole place had begun to wear off. He held back the urge to ask questions, however. Somehow he got the feeling John would not approve of the curiosity, despite his own. Neither of them were entirely comfortable with the arrangement yet.

“I suppose we could start with the miscellaneous things,” said Professor Burbage absently, and then the whirlwind started. Dean was not prepared for the sheer amount and difference of things that each shop sold. They passed from a place called Wisacre’s Wizarding Equipment to a shop that sold only cauldrons in enough sizes and shapes to make Dean’s head spin; then on to an apothecary filled with the sorts of things they were used to associating with witches, sans the human bits. Dean and John traded significant looks before being swept off to the robe shop, where a miserable Dean was fitted into the school’s uniform. Here, briefly, he thought he saw his father hiding a smile as he turned to watch the people walking down the increasingly more crowded street.

As the day ticked by, the two Winchesters found themselves relaxing somewhat. All of the witches and wizards they encountered were friendly or at least polite, and there didn’t seem to be anything nasty or monstrous going on. Aside from the strange contents of the stores it felt like any other shopping center, full of people going about their business and earning a living.

It was at Flourish and Blotts that John decided to leave the group. Upon walking in, both he and Dean had been impressed by the array of books, although their amazement was less than it might have been on another day. Getting Dean’s school books was quick and easy, but John was drawn away by the section on mythical creatures at some point during the process. 

When Dean went to collect his father, John shook his head. “I’m going to look here. They might have something on what we’re hunting.” 

Dean understood then. His father thought he might find some hint of the thing that had killed Mom in the books he was holding. “Professor Burbage says one more stop. I’ll come back here afterwards?” Dean phrased it as a question, wondering if his father would let him go off on his own.

John looked at him, placing the book that had been in his hands back on the shelf. He hesitated for a moment, then dipped his hand into his pocket, pulling out some of the coins and handing them to Dean. “I’ll be here. I don’t think you’re in any immediate danger, Dean. Just don’t trust anyone, and watch your back.”

Dean stood straighter and nodded. “Yes sir.” He paused, then added, “You watch your back too, Dad.”

His father smiled at him and then turned back to the shelf. John had that look in his eyes that he got whenever he found some clue about whatever had killed Mary Winchester. It was a mix of hatred, hope, and passion, and lent a fierce cast to his features. Dean knew that his father would spend hours searching for the right books if he had to. He had already spent seven years chasing the thing, after all. What was another day?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm at college and don't have my books with me, the details of Diagon Alley might not be quite right. I used Pottermore and the first movie as resources, so hopefully nothing is jarringly off. I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

Dean found Professor Burbage and they exited Flourish and Blotts together. She seemed to be unbothered at leaving John behind, having noticed that the hunter was no longer eager to kill every witch he passed in the street. If anything, she seemed happy to have some time to speak to Dean alone. “Just Ollivanders left,” she chirped. “This one might take a while.”

“Why’s that?” Dean asked. Although he was still tracking the passerby with his eyes, he too had relaxed slightly. He actually had found himself liking the professor as they went from shop to shop. She was kind and cheerful, and didn’t seem to judge either of the Winchesters for their differences. He still couldn’t quite bring himself to trust her, but she had grown on him.

“Well, this one is for your wand,” said Professor Burbage. “It’s the most important thing, so I thought we ought to leave it for last. Unless it breaks, you’ll probably use the same wand for the rest of your life. But the wand chooses the wizard, and… well, you’ll see.” 

She had an infuriating little grin on her face, and Dean almost demanded that she tell him what was going to happen. Instead, he said in a sarcastic tone, “Great. A surprise. Those are always fun.”

Professor Burbage laughed. “Oh, this one will be!” They stopped in front of an unassuming shop with dusty windows and a sign that pronounced ‘Ollivanders, Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC.’ The smiling professor indicated that Dean ought to go in first, and he entered with a little trepidation and a lot of curiosity.

Stepping into the wand shop was like stepping into another world. Everything looked quiet. A scant amount of sunshine filtered through the windows, illuminating motes of dust floating through the air. There was a small counter at the front and a chair to sit in, but the shop was mostly filled with shelves. There were rows and rows of them, all filled with what looked like slender shoeboxes. 

The trip to Diagon Alley had made Dean ease his vigilance, yet Ollivanders made him feel on edge all over again. Something about the place tingled, like a spider web brushing gently across the back of his neck. It was a feeling he had gotten on a few hunts, right before the monster-of-the-week had struck. He would have liked to have a gun in his hand. As it was, Dean had to settle for knowing he still had a silver knife strapped to his leg and an iron one in his pocket. It took all of his willpower not to draw either of them and take comfort in the cold metal.

“You’d think with all your fancy magic, someone might find the time to dust once in a while,” he quipped, forcing himself to relax and not twitch at every little sound from within the shop.

“Ollivander is a tad dramatic,” Professor Burbage whispered. “He probably thinks the dust adds to the atmosphere.” They had both lowered their voices without consciously making the decision to. The supreme quiet of the shop was in complete contrast to the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. 

“And who do we have here?”

Dean was proud to say that he did not, in fact, scream like a girl when the voice spoke up, but it was a near thing. Instead, he whirled about and had his knife half-way out of his pocket before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to let Professor Burbage see him do that. He settled for pretending to shove his hands in his pockets so he could grip the blade’s handle tightly. The source of the voice stepped out from behind one of the shelves, revealing an older man with pale eyes that definitely _did not_ creep Dean out at all.

“I’m Dean Winchester,” he said, standing a bit taller and thrusting his chin out in defiance. 

“I see. Here for a wand, Mr. Winchester?” The pale eyes looked Dean up and down.

“Dean,” blurted the Winchester. “I’m eleven. My dad is Mr. Winchester.”

“He is here for a wand, though,” said Professor Burbage helpfully.

“Hm.” Ollivander took out a measuring tape, which began to move around Dean of its own accord. He might have flinched previously, but after the affair at Madame Malkin’s he had become more adjusted to such objects. “First-year, Muggle-born, based on the professor’s presence. And right handed.” He looked significantly at Dean’s pocket, but Dean only tried to imitate his father’s scowl.

Before Dean could say anything, the old man had darted with surprising agility up a ladder attached to a shelf and returned with one of the odd boxes. Inside was a slender stick of wood, deep red in color. A wand, like Professor Burbage’s. Ollivander opened the box to Dean, who froze for a moment. He didn’t really want to relinquish his grip on his knife and pick the wand up. It was sort of like giving in and finally admitting that he was a wizard, and that felt like betrayal.

“Redwood, unicorn hair, eleven inches with a lot of spring. Go on,” urged Ollivander. Dean picked up the wand and looked at him, feeling stupid. “Give it a wave, then, Dean.”

Dean did so, and absolutely nothing happened. To his surprise, he found he was disappointed that it hadn’t worked. He didn’t have time to ponder this, however, as Ollivander was grabbing another box and saying, “Ah, well, not always on the first go. Here; hawthorn, phoenix feather, nice and supple, fourteen-and-a-half inches.”

The first wand was plucked out of his hands and the second shoved at him. Dean felt a bit less ridiculous this time when his flick of the wrist yielded no results.

“Interesting! Try this; maple, dragon heartstrings, ten-and-three-quarters and quite swishy.” 

Another wave, another miss.

“Maybe this one, then; oak, unicorn hair, twelve inches, unyielding…”

It continued on like that. Wand after wand was thrust into Dean’s hands and quickly removed again when it provided no results. With each miss, Ollivander only seemed to grow more excited. “I so rarely get a good challenge, but fret not! We’ll find it! Now, dogwood, phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-quarter, bendy…” Dean wondered what Ollivander was actually looking for, but he was having wands thrown at him so quickly he couldn’t get a chance to ask.

After the first five minutes Professor Burbage sat down in the chair, a faint smile on her face. After another ten, Ollivander went into the back to look for something in particular and Dean had a chance to breath. “Maybe I’m not a wizard after all,” he said somewhat shakily.

Professor Burbage laughed. “I’ve seen this take almost an hour before. Don’t worry, you’ll get yours eventually.” Dean had wanted to say that he wasn’t worried, but then he was being ordered to wave cherry, dragon heartstring, nine-and-a-half, flexible, and didn’t get a chance to.

The pile of wands on the counter grew taller and more unstable as the minutes ticked by. Another young boy and his mother came in and stood waiting at the half-hour mark. Professor Burbage gave them an apologetic smile and engaged them in conversation. Time began to feel like it was dragging on and Dean stifled a yawn, until…

“Cedar and dragon heartstring, twelve-and-three-quarter inches, rigid.”

The second Dean grasped the handle he knew something was different. This wand didn’t just feel like a stick of wood, but something warm and glowing and vibrantly _alive_. Sure enough, when Dean gave a flick of his wrist a shower of golden sparks shot out of the wand’s tip. Dean stared at the wand, dumbfounded, as Professor Burbage and the waiting pair gave a round of applause. 

“Well, that was quite exciting!” exclaimed Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be incredibly pleased by how long it had taken. He said something about money, and Dean forked over a handful of coins, but whatever else the man had to say didn’t seem to matter anymore. Dean was still staring at the stick of wood- no, the wand in his hands.

He had just used magic. For the first time, he had consciously waved his wand and sparks had come out. And it hadn’t felt wrong, or evil, in any way. If anything, it had felt gloriously _right_. It frightened him. The whole day had frightened him. His world view was spinning, set on edge, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted things to go back to how they used to be. For the first time, he considered that he might want to be a wizard. Might want to do more magic. Might want to…

He was drawing fast, shallow breaths when Professor Burbage’s hand on his arm pulled him back to reality. Reluctantly, he put away the wand, his wand, and let himself be led out of the shop. Picking up John, exiting Diagon Alley, and saying farewell to Professor Burbage all passed in a haze of motion and sound. Dean absorbed none of it. All that he could think, over and over again, was:

_I’m a wizard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this chapter being twelve percent me playing with wand combos. If it helps you regain that twelve percent of a moment, I snuck what would be Sam's wand in there. Good luck finding it!


	6. Chapter 6

“Seriously, Sammy? Again?” Dean kicked the door shut behind him with a loud bang, which to his satisfaction caused Sam to jump and nearly drop the book he had been reading. Dumping the bags of food in his hands on the table, he came up behind Sam and “accidentally” bumped his brother. This time, Sam dropped the book for real and almost fell out of the chair.

“Dean!” Sam whined. “Watch it, you jerk. It’s your book.”

“Yeah, I know. Which brings me back to why the hell are you reading it? Again? That stuff is total crap.” Dean grabbed the book and tossed it back in the trunk, slamming the lid shut.

It had been almost three weeks since the trip to Diagon Alley, and in that time things had calmed down a bit from the initial chaotic aftermath. When Dean and John had first returned, Sam had asked so many questions that it was a miracle neither one had snapped at him. The two older Winchesters had made a pact to lock everything in his trunk and hide it to the best of their ability in hopes of keeping Sam out of the stuff. 

This had worked for maybe five days, giving John time to realize the books he’d bought, while fascinating, contained nothing about women who had been burned alive on the ceiling. As if adding insult to injury, Bobby had found nothing on wizards except for a vague mention of a school of witchcraft in Scotland. John had then stormed out on a tip from Father McLeod, grumbling something about werewolves and giving Dean the same instructions as usual: salt the doors and windows, don’t let anyone in, and watch out for Sammy.

After that, there was only one pair of eyes on the youngest Winchester, and it took Sam less than twenty-four hours to apply everything he’d learned about lock picking to the trunk. Dean came back from getting food for the week to find Sam buried in Hogwarts, A History. Sam had at least had the decency to look guilty at getting caught, and Dean didn’t have it in him to get too mad. Well, okay, he’d yelled a little bit, but then Sam had turned those puppy-dog eyes on him and Dean had just handed over all of the books. That, at least, kept Sam away from the rest of the things- most importantly, away from Dean’s wand.

Dean didn’t want to admit how attached he had grown to the thing in the three weeks he’d had it. Although he had not actually attempted to use it again, he would occasionally take it out when no one else was looking and just stare it at, remembering the warm glow of the magic as he had waved it for the first time. It wasn’t as good a feeling as when Sam’s first word was “Dean”, or when he’d gone shooting with Dad for the first time, but it was a near thing.

Speaking of Sam, his younger brother was still whining in a way Dean thought was endearingly annoying. “Come on, Dean, I was in the middle of that!”

“Yeah, well, it’s dinner time now,” said Dean, pulling Chinese food out of one of the bags he’d brought in with him.

“But Dean-“

“Don’t be a girl, Sammy, you can have it back after you eat something. Honestly, you’re such a nerd.” Sam chucked his fork at Dean for that, but it was plastic so it just bounced off his chest and onto the table.

Three days. Dean was trying very hard not to think about the fact that it was August 29th. He had less than three days with his family, and then… Dean wasn’t sure what to expect, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to read the books himself. He wondered if John would remember the date and return from his hunt in time. Sometimes he got caught up in a hunt and returned weeks later than expected. It was starting to happen more and more now that Dean was old enough to be counted on to take care of Sam.

As if reading his thoughts, the phone rang. After the first ring, it hung up, and then began to ring once more. The signal that John was calling. Dean pushed away his food and swallowed before answering, trying not to sound too eager. “Hello?”

“Dean. Are you boys alright?” John sounded tired but pleased. Dean took this to be a good sign.

“Everything’s fine here, Dad. How did it go?” 

“Good. I got it.” As always, those words made Dean’s heart lift. “I’m going to drive back tonight. I just need to finish the cleanup.”

That was code for, ‘I’m going to be very late so don’t wait up for me.’ But just in case, Dean asked, “How long will you be?”

“Long enough. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

“Yes sir.” Dean suppressed a sigh. He had been hoping to see his father that night. He hesitated for a just a moment, and then added, “Have a safe trip, Dad.”

“I will.” John’s voice had the distracted quality that meant he was already thinking about other things. “Don’t let Sammy stay up too late and remember to check the salt lines.” Then he hung up. Dean stared forlornly at the handset before placing it back in its cradle. He was used to the military treatment at this point in his life, but sometimes he wished his father would at least say ‘good-bye’ before hanging up on him. 

“So?” Sam asked, large eyes watching Dean.

Dean forced a smile onto his face. “Dad says he’ll be back in the morning.”

They finished dinner, and Dean didn’t even have to fight Sam to get him to eat his broccoli. After tossing their trash in the dumpster outside Dean did one final check of the perimeter, making sure all of the salt lines were intact. He waited until eleven to nag Sam about the books, and then tucked his baby brother in. Settling down on the bed, he prepared to wait for his father despite John’s insinuation that he shouldn’t do so.

When John came back, he found both of his sons asleep- one curled up under the blankets, the other propped up on the pillows with his clothes still on. Exhausted as he was, he couldn’t help but smile. Dean fidgeted a bit when John moved him into a more comfortable position, but it was five in the morning and the kid wasn’t going to wake up any time soon. And after John collapsed onto his own bed, neither was he.

Dean woke up in a different position than he had remembered sitting in, and knew that he had failed to stay awake until his father’s return. Opening his eyes and blinking against the dim morning light, Dean saw John passed out on the neighboring bed. Dislodging Sam’s elbow from his ribcage (could that kid sleep normally for once?) Dean got out of bed as quietly as possible and made his way to the bathroom.

Either he was not as cat-like as he had imagined or his father was a lighter sleeper than he remembered. When he returned to the room, John was sitting at the table, shifting aside the books Sammy had been devouring. As Dean entered he met his eyes, John holding up one of the books in a silent question.

“You taught him how to pick a lock, Dad,” Dean whispered, sliding into the chair opposite his father.

John sighed and put the book in a pile with the others. He didn’t say anything, but Dean knew his father well enough to guess at his thoughts. Disapproval, but not enough to say anything, especially since he had, in fact, taught little Sammy how to pick a lock. Annoyance, but a grudging acceptance that the contents of the books were relatively harmless and could be an asset in future hunts.

They sat quietly, John flipping through the paper and his journal alternatively, Dean watching him work. When Sam woke up he let out a shriek of joy that revealed his age and tackled their father. Dean caught the wince, even if Sammy didn’t, but he didn’t say anything either. John smiled and said, “Hey, Sammy,” and then scolded his youngest with his next breath. 

Dean wasn’t sure what he had expected when John got back, but this… this felt normal. They got cheap diner food for breakfast (lunch), did drills, and listened to John talk about his case. Dean kept on waiting for his father to bring up the elephant in the room, but John didn’t mention anything about Hogwarts or wizards. 

He didn’t mention anything about it the next day either; he just took his sons a few miles away from civilization to shoot cardboard cutouts taped to a fence. At first, Dean was annoyed at his father’s insistence at pretending everything was normal, but as he emptied his fourth clip he realized it was the best thing John could have done for him. For a few happy hours, they could act like a family. It wasn’t the kind of family most people had or approved of, but it was what Dean knew and loved. This was a message for Dean: nothing had changed between them. When he came back, they could return to self-defense lessons and target practice and research and hunting down everything evil within driving distance. He was still John’s son and Sam’s brother.

But then it was the thirty-first, and there was packing and inevitable discussions about self-protection and who to contact if he needed to get pulled out. Whatever measure of peace Dean had managed to attain was shattered. John had to order his son to try to sleep at two in the morning, even as he went back outside to pace the length of the motel parking lot for the umpteenth time. He didn’t come in until three, and even then Dean could hear him shifting restlessly. Dean stared at the ceiling, and didn’t push Sammy off when his brother rolled against him at four. He had just begun to drift off when the sun rose at five, bringing his hyperactive mind back to reality and his frantic thoughts.

It was September first.


	7. Chapter 7

It had been a subject of some debate as to whether or not Sammy should accompany them, but John had decided it was better for him to have some idea of where his brother was going. The youngest Winchester’s almost-tears had gone a long way to convincing him and had melted Dean’s heart almost instantly. As soon as the two had agreed to his demands, the youngest Winchester had become more manageable. Still, as the trio entered the station Sam clung tightly to Dean’s jacket.

King’s Cross Station was fairly busy, with ordinary people running to and fro. It seemed that a Muggle train was departing at a similar time as the Hogwarts Express from platform ten, making navigating the crowd a bit of a challenge. That wasn’t what Dean was worried about, however.

“She really said to just run straight at it?” he asked, eyeing the brick wall with more than a little trepidation.

“You heard her as clearly as I did,” said John. Despite his words, he looked as apprehensive as his son. 

Dean braced himself. “I swear, if I go splat, I am going to find that bit- _professor_ first thing and punch her in the face.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Dean.” There was a tone of light amusement to his voice, and John placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder for a moment. “You’ll probably be fine.”

Dean swallowed his fear. He had seen magic do some weird things in the past month, certainly, but where was there _space_ for anything behind all that brick? 

Without him asking them to, Dean’s feet began to move. The next thing he knew, he was heading towards what seemed to be an undeniably solid wall. Dean tried to resist the urge to blink, but at the last second he flinched. When he opened his eyes, the Muggle station was gone. The new platform still embodied the same chaos but flashier and more colorful. The bright red steam engine was the first thing that caught Dean’s eye, before he found himself wondering yet again how in the world wizards were able to cram so much room into such a tiny area.

It was somewhat unnerving how similar the hustle and bustle on Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters was to that of the adjacent Muggle train station. People were shouting, hugging goodbye, and running in all directions. And despite that, a good number of them were wearing robes and occasionally shooting off some small bit of magic. Dean was finding that as time passed, he was becoming more adjusted to the dizzying contrast between supernatural and normal. Beside him, Sam’s head was rotating so quickly that Dean thought he ought to sit down before he made himself sick. John didn’t seem to be taking it as well as his sons; his shoulders were set tightly and his hands kept ghosting towards his various weapons in unconscious movements. Despite their different reactions, however, all three Winchesters walked side-by-side.

Standing together like that, Dean felt a bit more confidant. Knowing his family had his back, even if it was just for a little while longer, gave him a strange sense of comfort. It made leaving that much harder. Dropping off luggage was nothing compared to saying goodbye not knowing where he was going or how much of him would be left when he came back. This was life changing, and all he could pray for was that when it was all over nothing would be irreparably different. 

_I can do this,_ Dean told himself as a voice announced the train would be departing in five minutes. _I can do this._

“So this is it.” John was looking at his son with eyes Dean couldn’t read. 

Neither of them were good with words. Dean reached out and embraced his father, burying his face into the older man’s jacket in a way he hadn’t done in years. It smelled like leather and gunpowder and metal and blood. John brought his arms around his son, offering the comfort that Dean would never ask for but accepted gladly. And then it was over. Dean didn’t have to say he was afraid. John didn’t have to say the same.

“Dean…” Sammy’s voice wavered, and then Dean was hugging his little brother as well. This time, instead seeking comfort, he gave it. 

“I swear to god, Sammy, if you start to cry I will never let you live it down.” Dean gave his little brother his best stern look, trying not to let a quiver into his own voice.

Sam sniffed. “I’m not crying, you big jerk.”

“Of course you aren’t.” Dean ruffled his baby brother’s hair and looked at John. _Take care of him,_ Dean tried to say with his eyes. He thought that the message had gone through, because his father nodded slightly. “I’ll be back for Christmas. Be good, okay?”

And that was it. Dean joined the crowd of children getting onto the train, trying to keep his cool and not look back but failing. The train was crowded, and when the whistle blew Dean’s twitch made him elbow an older boy. He didn’t apologize, but instead hurried down the car, looking desperately for an empty compartment so that he could go in and get a final glimpse of his family before the Hogwarts Express pulled away. As the train lurched into motion, however, Dean realized that there was no going back. He allowed him a moment of self-pity and terror.

Then he switched his brain into a different mode, one where acting was the only thing that mattered and he didn’t have the attention to spare for emotions. It was a mindset that came over him while hunting in which there was only the mission. The worry for Sam was still there, deeply ingrained as always, but now Dean was acting in a way that prepared him to survive the train ride in whatever way possible.

“If you’re looking for a compartment, it’s just me in here,” came a female voice from right behind him. Allowing himself to slip into combat mode to deal with his emotions had been a bad move. Dean wheeled about, fist automatically lashing out. Thankfully, the girl behind him was more aware than he was and dodged out of the way. Dean’s fist slammed into the compartment’s door frame, causing his knuckles to throb painfully.

“Whoa!” exclaimed the girl, who backed up and held her hands up. Dean noted that she was his age and dressed in regular clothing; not exactly threatening. 

Sudden realization struck as Dean realized he was going to need to get along with these people for a year. This school wasn’t just some hot zone in which he was going to need to be combat ready. The approach he had been taking was the entirely wrong one. These were kids his age, like him, and he was going to have to stop thinking of them as threats and start thinking of them as human beings. After all, he wasn’t entirely different from them.

“Sorry,” he managed, trying to control his rapid breathing. “I’m just, uh, really nervous.” Dean realized it was probably a good thing he hadn’t pulled the knife he had in his pocket.

“What, and your reaction is to try and punch me?” The girl was trying to sound offended, but the amusement in her eyes tipped her hand.

“At least I didn’t hit you,” Dean said, trying out his charming grin and finding it shaky instead.

“Yes, it would have been a shame for me to have to ruin your pretty face.” She flashed him a much more genuine grin. “My offer still stands if you promise not to try to punch me again.”

Dean laughed breathlessly and entered the compartment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’m Katie, by the way. Katie Bell. First year.” She shut the door and sat down.

Dean followed suit, putting down his duffel with some trepidation and taking stock of the compartment. “Dean Winchester. Me too.”

“So, you’re American then?” 

“Yeah.”

“Neat! What’re you doing at Hogwarts?” 

Dean stared at her for a moment, unsure what to say. He decided to go for the simple, honest truth. “My family moved to the UK last year.” He paused for a moment, then decided to gather some information for himself. “Is everyone in your family…” he twiddled his fingers.

Katie was completely unfazed by his hesitation to answer her question, and seemed quite happy to answer his own. “Not quite! Well, both of my parents are, but my grandparents are all Muggles. And I have aunts and uncles who are Muggle too.” Sudden realization seemed to hit her. “Oh, I get it! You’re Muggle-born, then? No wonder you’re twitchy!”

Dean let out a short laugh. “You have no idea.”

“Don’t worry, it’s all fine! Mum and Dad say that the learning curve in class is hardly anything after the first month or so.” Her words were meant to be reassuring, but somehow Dean only felt the pit of his stomach drop out more at the mention of classes.

Dean thought it was weird that she could be so perceptive and yet miss the point so completely. “I, uh, I guess.”

“Come on!” she said. “It’s exciting! We’re going to be sorted, and get to learn real magic, and there’ll be Quidditch!”

“Quidditch?” The nonsense word felt strange in Dean’s mouth. Apparently the one word spoken in a questioning tone was all Katie needed, because she promptly launched into a long winded explanation of some wizarding sport. Dean was horrified to hear that they flew around _on broomsticks_ , doing daring feats of aerial acrobatics, in order to throw a ball through some hoops. Listening to Katie babble on excitedly was actually somewhat relaxing. If he stopped listening to her words, she sounded a little bit like Sammy when he had a new book.

Suddenly, she fell silent. Dean looked over at her, and realized that she had asked a question. “What?” he said stupidly.

“You weren’t listening to a word I was saying, were you?” For some reason, this seemed to offend her more than him almost punching her. 

Dean shook his head. “You lost me at flying.”

Katie’s eyebrows turned into a V. “Well, you could have said something if I was boring you.”

“What? No, sorry, I just, eh…” Dean tried to convey what he was feeling without letting out too much information. “You sound like my brother when he’s gotten into a book, and, um.” He didn’t know where to go from there. How could he tell her honestly that he was a little bit afraid of everyone on this train, and had trouble thinking of them as people? How her blathering had made him feel a little bit safer, as if he was with a potential ally and friend as opposed to something he might have hunted on a dark night?

“He hates it when I interrupt,” Dean finished lamely.

This seemed to placate her. “He sounds like a total Ravenclaw.”

Dean had no idea what that meant, and his blank look told her as much. A look of incredulity appeared on her face. “You don’t know about the houses? You didn’t look anything up at all?”

Dean pushed down the urge to justify himself, trying (and failing) to convince himself that he didn’t care what this girl thought of him. “I haven’t been super enthusiastic about all of this hocus-pocus,” he grumbled defensively, folding his arms.

“What? Why not? Isn’t this much more exciting than whatever Muggle schooling you were going to get?” Katie seemed genuinely curious.

Forcing down a bitter laugh, Dean changed the subject. “What are these houses you mentioned?”

Katie wasn’t stupid, but she didn’t push him to answer her. “I’m not going to say anything if you’re not going to listen.”

“No, I’ll pay attention. This actually sounds useful.” Dean sat up and forward, spreading his hands in an ‘I’m listening’ gesture.

Katie straightened as well. “Alright, then. There are four houses; Ravenclaw like I said, Gryffindor, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff.” She raised her eyebrows, silently asking if Dean was still focused.

“Those sound like you made them up just now,” he said, to indicate that he was.

“I didn’t, the founders of Hogwarts did,” Katie sniffed. “Those were their names. Anyway, the important part is that we all get put into houses when we get to Hogwarts. You take classes with your housemates and stay in the same dorm. Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, Ravenclaws are all a bunch of nerds, Slytherins are jerks, and Hufflepuffs… well, they’re nice.”

Dean thought that she might be a little bit biased. “And they decide who goes where how?”

“Oh, apparently there’s a magic hat or something. We’ll get sorted as soon as we get there, and find out then, I suppose.” The thought of getting sorted seemed to excite her, but Dean merely nodded. It was just one more thing he was going to have to think when he got to the school.

After that, they fell into a somewhat uncomfortable silence. Dean wasn’t really sure what to say or how to interact with the girl. He knew that his father would want him to pump her for information about the wizarding world, but he felt sick to his stomach and couldn’t bring the false cheer back. 

The silence was broken momentarily when the food trolley came by. Dean’s childhood had taught him that when there was food, he ought to eat it, and he and Katie explored the contents of the trolley together. Dean didn’t recognize anything so he allowed the girl to pick things that she said were good or at least interesting. They paid for their own, but Katie proved to be quite generous and soon enough they were trading back and forth.

“Every flavor?” Dean asked, and then choked on something that tasted too much like pickles for comfort. 

“Every flavor,” Katie laughed. They then took turns seeing who could find the grossest flavors in a pseudo-macho contest. Food was apparently all that was needed to melt the ice between them. Soon enough they were joking and speaking more freely, although Dean still avoided talking about himself. Katie was fascinated by the Muggle television and movies that Dean spoke about, whereas he couldn’t believe that wizards didn’t have their own.

Soon enough, the sky was turning a dusky blue. “We ought to get changed. We’re going to be there soon,” said Katie, peering out the window at the passing countryside. Dean frowned slightly, apprehension bubbling in his stomach. He had enjoyed talking to Katie quite a lot, and had almost begun to forget his nerves. He had even gotten comfortable enough that he was willing to let her punch him on the shoulder playfully when he accidentally lost her chocolate frog.

Realizing what ‘getting changed’ was going to entail, Dean put his head in his hands. “Oh god, I’m going to look ridiculous in that damn robe,” Dean moaned, much to Katie’s amusement.

“Yeah, well, I’m changing first so you can see how bad it isn’t.” Dean raised his eyebrows and made a little ‘get on with it’ gesture. “That means get out, you moron!” Katie pushed him jokingly, and they both laughed. Neither of them were really old enough care about that kind of thing yet, but Dean never passed up the opportunity to hassle a girl.

A few minutes later Katie opened the door to let him back in. Dean had to admit she didn’t look half-bad in the ensemble. “Oh god, I hope I don’t look like _that_ ,” Dean said, earning another playful jostle. Then, without giving her the chance to get out first, he began to strip. She let out a little yelp and quickly exited, slamming the compartment door closed.

The robes were surprisingly comfortable, and Dean suspected that there might be some kind of enchantment on them that made them so. He refused to believe that anything that involved a robe could actually be comfortable on its own. Still, he looked absolutely ridiculous, especially because he had no idea how to tie a tie on more than a basic level. He fussed with the garments, trying to find some way to make them look his normal clothing, but it was impossible.

“Sheesh, Winchester, you’re taking longer than a girl before her first date! Hurry it up!” Dean opened the compartment door, trying not to blush. From the grin on Katie’s face, he could assume that he had failed. A scowl replaced the red flush and he folded his arms.

“We should get there soon, I think,” said Katie. “Mum said that after it gets dark there’s less than an hour left to the trip.” She bounced up and down a little bit as she spoke, excitement shining in her eyes.

“Great,” Dean muttered. He tried to convince himself that this was a good idea, and that he knew it was the best option they’d had. He remembered that there hadn’t been many other viable options, and conjured up the feeling of waving his wand for the first time for good measure. That last memory was enough to lift the pall over his thoughts, and a faint smile graced his face.

“See? I knew that you were at least a little excited!” Katie clapped him on the shoulder, and Dean flinched. The girl was way too hands on. 

“Yeah, sure,” he groused. “Let’s clean up this crap. I call dibs on those mini pies!”

“They’re called pasties, you twit!” Having forgotten who had bought what, they bickered about splitting up the leftovers until the train’s whistle rang out. They both froze, albeit for different reasons, and then began to rapidly shove things into their bags. 

The Hogwarts Express lurched to a halt, jostling its passengers. A voice came from seemingly nowhere, announcing that the train had reached its destination and asking students to leave all of their luggage on the train. Dean looked at his duffle longingly. He had his gun in there, since he was too small to conceal it on his person with his knives. Meeting Katie had convinced him that he probably wouldn’t need either, but he still felt naked leaving it behind.

Katie grabbed Dean’s sleeve and began to drag him bodily out of the compartment. “Come on!” she exclaimed. Next thing he knew, he was blinking the afterimage of the lights from the train out of his eyes and peering out at the dark platform. 

The press of excited students carried them along, and Dean found it hard not to get caught up in their enthusiasm. From somewhere up ahead came a call of “Firs’ years, this way! Firs’ year students, over here!” And together with Katie and a sense of foreboding excitement, Dean followed the voice in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katie Bell isn't very well defined in the books, so I'm taking some liberties here. And again, no books with me, so I'm relying on movie and memory for anything canon! Enjoy!


	8. Chapter 8

The source of the voice proved to be a small hill with a lantern attached. With a jolt, Dean realized it was a man- an inhumanly enormous man. Whatever sense of comfort he had begun to feel after his time with Katie evaporated. “Who is that?” he hissed to the girl next to him.

“That’s Hagrid!” she whispered excitedly. “My Mum told me about him; apparently he’d the game keeper or something. She said he was huge, but blimey, that’s really big!” Dean just grunted, feeling more than a little intimidated.

“Firs’ years over here!” rumbled the man-mountain. “Do we have everyone, then?” He peered at the crowd of comparably tiny eleven-year-olds that had gathered around him. Dean froze when Hagrid’s gaze passed over him, trying not to draw attention to himself as his hand found its way to his pocket.

There was a faint murmur among the children, none of them quite willing to declare that everyone was present just in case someone was missing. The giant man scanned over the crowd without even stretching a little. Apparently he was satisfied that there was no one left on the platform, because he waved his lantern and began to lead the way into the gathering gloom. “Righ’ then, come this way. If yeh see anyone gettin’ left behind, jus’ holler.” 

The other students were following obediently, but Dean found it difficult to do the same. He began to lag behind. Katie didn’t seem to notice, caught up in the frenzy. Dean wondered what would happen if he just turned and ran right now. He could be gone before anyone even noticed. It was dark out, and they hadn’t encountered civilization for a long time; he could vanish into the countryside and-

No. That would be cowardly, and Dean couldn’t run back to his family now. He caught up with the group just in time to see that the first years were being led to a dock where a small fleet of rowboats (sans oars) were bobbing up and down.

“No more’n four students each!” Hagrid was saying. “Watch yer step now, don’ fall in the lake.”

“Dean!” whispered Katie from his side. He managed not to jump out of his skin. “You’re so slow! This isn’t going to be a habit, is it?”

“Oh, shut up!” he hissed. Her only response was to drag him towards one of the unoccupied vessels. “Sheesh, woman, give a man a minute to get his own legs under him!” 

They clambered into one of the tiny boats. To Dean’s amusement, Katie almost took a dip in the lake and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her. He quickly sobered and sat down, however, as the boat began to glide forward of its own accord.

At first it was too misty on the lake to really see anything. Then, a hulking form emerged from the fog. Over the next few minutes, it resolved into the outline of a castle that had to be too large for life. Students began whispering to each other, and although Dean couldn’t see their faces he could hear the excitement and awe in all of their voices. Katie gripped his sleeve tightly and instinctively, eyes wide and shining as she babbled something to him.

Whatever it was, his brain didn’t bother to process it. It was too busy scrambling to take in the gigantic structure before them. He could see the lights in the windows and the outlines of towers that jutted off at impossible angles. Despite all of his misgivings about the place, Dean could not help but be amazed by the castle. He knew that it had probably been built with magic, which was basically like cheating in his mind, but at the same time it was so largely impressive that it filled him with some measure of respect for its builders.

The boats passed under a long curtain of ivy, forcing the students to duck their heads. A moment later there was a bump against the side of the hull as the craft stopped at the dock. They all disembarked, and Dean was amazed that of a group of sixty-some-odd eleven-year-olds not a single one fell in. Hagrid led them into a door, where an older woman was waiting for them.

The second Dean laid eyes on her, he knew that she was someone he did not want to cross. Physically, she wasn’t terribly imposing. She was of average height and looked like she was getting on in years. She wore robes, like most witches he had seen, and had a pair of peculiar square spectacles. Something about her rigid posture and stern gaze, however, told him that she was much more dangerous that the other aspects of her appearance let on.

“Got ‘em all right here, Professor McGonagall,” said the giant man cheerfully. He didn’t seem to be intimidated by the woman, but he did pay her a certain amount of respect. 

“Thank you Hagrid.” She didn’t smile, but her features might have softened a tiny bit while addressing the giant man. “I can take them now. Follow me,” she said to the group of students. She led them inside the castle and down a small corridor, bare of any décor except for a few paintings. A few hours ago, Dean might have freaked out when he noticed that they were moving, but he had gotten that particular shock out of his system on the train with Katie.

Professor McGonagall showed the group into a small room and then turned to address them. “Welcome to Hogwarts,” she began, and Dean could sense a speech coming on. “The start-of-term banquet will begin momentarily. Before you can join your fellow students in the Great Hall, however, you will be sorted into one of the four houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.” Her eyes scanned the crowd as she spoke, and Dean thought that they lingered on him a moment longer than the other students. 

“During your time at Hogwarts, your house will be like your family. You will sleep in the same dorm, go to classes together, and share a house common room. You will work together to earn points for your house by performing well, whereas points will be deducted for poor conduct and rule-breaking. At the end of the year, the house with the most points will win the House Cup, a great honor I hope you all will strive to achieve.” 

She glanced at some sort of timekeeping device and said, “The Sorting Ceremony will begin shortly. As it takes place in front of the entire school, I would recommend that you try to present yourselves in a positive light. I will return shortly when it is time to begin.”

With that, the older witch exited. Almost immediately, the students began to talk amongst themselves. Weaving her way through the excited and nervous students, Katie found her way to Dean.

“Isn’t this fantastic?” Her grin was almost a mile wide, and Dean couldn’t help but mirror it faintly. “I mean, Mum and Dad always did say that Hogwarts was amazing, but this is absolutely _brilliant_!”

Dean had to agree with her. “This place is incredib- Gah!”

A crowd of _ghosts_ had just floated out of the wall behind him, one of them passing through him in an eerily slimy, cold sensation. Dean reacted on instinct. He shoved Katie and another student out of the way, shouting, “Get down!” He drew his knife and opened it in a smooth motion. Someone shouted his name, but it wasn’t Dad or Sammy so it couldn’t have mattered. He slashed out with the iron blade at one of the pearly forms before him and…

…it passed harmlessly through. No dissipation, not even a little disruption. The ghost merely turned to look at him, slightly confused expression on its face. Panicking, Dean thought that maybe he had missed and ought to go in for another swing. 

Before he had the chance to attack again, the blade was plucked neatly from his hands by an invisible force. Terror gripped Dean as he realized that these ghosts were poltergeists, manifest enough that they could get his weapon out of his hands. He reached for the pocket where he usually kept his salt, trying to stay calm, but he hadn’t taken it with him when he’d changed clothing.

“Mr. Winchester!” This time, his name caught his attention. Sixty students were staring at him and whispering to each other, but the one who had called his name with the same command as his father was Professor McGonagall. “What are you doing?”

Dean stared at her as if she had three heads. What did she mean? Why was no one else freaking out when there were almost a dozen spirits floating about? 

“Jumpy lot this year,” said a ghost with a large ruff around its neck. Dean flinched and wondered if maybe silver would work better on these poltergeists; they were obviously different from the type he had encountered previously and they did have a sort of silvery sheen to them. He scrabbled at his ankle, almost getting the knife out of his boot before another unseen force grabbed his wrist, prying the blade from his fingers.

This time, he registered that it was Professor McGonagall who was disarming him. “Mr. Winchester, you have ten seconds to start explaining what you’re doing before I-“

“You- you don’t-“ Dean gasped, trying to still his heart and breathing. “You just let- friggin’ poltergeists- are you _insane_?”

“I say, my boy, have you ever heard of manners? We’re hardly-“ The ghost had begun to speak again, but apparently Professor McGonagall’s glare was enough to silence even the undead.

“I thought you spoke to Professor Burbage.” Professor McGonagall pocketed both blades, and Dean had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t see them again.

He tried to understand why that mattered, and finally it hit him. “This is… this is normal?”

Professor McGonagall seemed to be about to say something, but she glanced at some kind of watch and changed her mind. “We’ll talk about this later,” she said sternly. Then she turned to the rest of the students.

“It’s time for the Sorting Ceremony. Please follow me.” The students obeyed, but they were still glancing at Dean as they moved away and whispering amongst themselves.

“Dean?” Katie plucked at his sleeve, a slightly frightened expression on her face. “Are you okay? They’re just ghosts.”

Dean just shook his head, trying to steady his breathing. “This… this must be what going mad feels like.”

Katie looked at him, but Dean didn’t have it in him to face whatever she was about to say. He shook his head again and started following the other students into the Great Hall.

Still too shaken by his encounter with the ghosts to be impressed by the Great Hall, Dean nonetheless took in the details. The hall was enormous. Four long tables with floating candles sat over five hundred students of varying ages, all dressed in the school’s uniform. At the far end of the hall was another, shorter table at which adults Dean supposed must be teachers were seated. His gaze wandered up, and he started for a second before realizing that the hall did in fact have a ceiling and the night sky on display was an illusion. 

Professor McGonagall led them past the older students to stop in front of a stool with a tatty old hat resting on it. Dean wondered if this was seriously the hat that Katie had been talking about, because it looked like it might fall apart at the seams at any moment. He was busy being dazed and unimpressed when suddenly a rip at the brim opened up and the hat started to sing.

Dean stared at it and wondered if there was a single possible way for his day to get weirder. As the hat spouted some nonsense about “Gryffindor the daring” and “Hufflepuff the caring,” he wondered if maybe this was just a dream. It was certainly crazy enough. Maybe one of those fever dreams, in which nothing awful happens outright but you wander around in a haze of confusion and discomfort anyway.

Once the battered old hat had finished its song, Professor McGonagall opened a roll of parchment and said, “When I call your name, please come sit on the stool and put the hat on to be sorted.”

She cleared her throat. “Adams, Corrina.” 

A girl with messy blond hair and glasses come forward. The hat perched precariously on her head for almost a full minute before it shouted, “Ravenclaw!” One of the long tables burst into cheers and applause as the small girl got off the stool and trotted towards them.

The hat was pulled off her head, and then “Bale, David” was called up. The hat barely hesitated before declaring, “Hufflepuff!”

Two more names were called, and then it was “Bell, Katherine.” Katie elbowed Dean, looking nervous and excited, before running up. He figured he had an idea where she would get sorted, and he wondered why he cared. Sure enough, a moment later the hat had shouted, “Gryffindor!” Gryffindors were apparently the rowdiest, because their cheering was almost deafening.

This pattern continued for a long time. It had become apparent almost immediately that Professor McGonagall was going in alphabetical order, and Dean could never tell how long the hat was going to take to decide what house to put a student in. He found himself growing a bit nervous- not because he particularly cared where he was going to get sorted, but because he didn’t really want to put a mind-reading hat on his head. There were at least fifty names called before his own, and Dean had to put to use his years of practice at waiting to stop himself from becoming impatient.

“Winchester, Dean!”

Professor McGonagall’s hawkish gaze was turned to him. The other two first years left glanced at each other as Dean walked forward. His training helped him keep his limbs from trembling as he sat on the stool and put the hat on his head.

His first thought as the brim of the hat fell over his eyes was, _I swear, if you mess with my head I will make you rue the day you were sewn._

“Tetchy, aren’t you?” said a voice quietly in his ear. Dean twitched. “And very conflicted. Afraid, yes, but facing it.”

Dean’s mind flashed to his father, telling him to control his fear when Dean’s hands trembled on his shotgun on his first hunt. Then he pushed away the memory, not willing to let the Sorting Hat near his family.

“Loyal, too.” This time, Dean managed not to flinch as the tiny voice spoke in his head. “Devoted, even. Perhaps Hufflepuff?”

Irrationally angry that the hat had peaked at his memories, Dean snarled, _I don’t really care where you put me, you stupid hat. Just stay away from my memories._

The hat clucked softly, making Dean wonder how it did that if it had no tongue. “Yes, you’d walk through fire for your family. You have done so before to save others who meant less to you.”

Suppressing the memory of the changeling hunt, Dean thought, _I’d certainly walk through you, you moldy piece of-_

“Gryffindor!” roared the hat, and Dean could feel its amusement when he almost fell off the stool at the sudden interruption. Then Professor McGonagall pulled off the hat as the Gryffindor table burst into applause again. Katie waved at him enthusiastically, and he made his way to sit next to her. He was glad that she wasn’t too unnerved by his earlier outburst; he needed something vaguely familiar to help ground him in all of this chaos.

“Congratulations, Dean!” she exclaimed, along with several other students. Dean felt that he should at least pretend to be happy about this turn of events, so he gave them a faint smile before turning his thoughts inwards. 

He didn’t have time to wallow in his dark thoughts, however, as the last few students were sorted quickly. Once the final boy had been declared a Slytherin, an old man with a long white beard at the teacher’s table stood up. Dean assumed that this must be Dundle-bore, or whatever the headmaster’s name was. He clapped his hands only once, the sound unusually loud, and the chattering students fell silent almost immediately.

“Welcome to the start of another year at Hogwarts! I hope you all enjoyed your summers and managed to get your brains nice and empty for the new term. Before our festivities can commence, I have a few announcements to make. Over the summer, Professor Charbridge suffered an unfortunate potions accident and will not be able to return to us due to a number of tentacles he is now sporting on his face. I think they look quite becoming, but he seems to be of a mind that he is no longer fit to be seen in public.” A number of students sniggered at this, but silence fell again quickly when Dumbledore cast his gaze over the crowd. 

“As a result, Andrea Dewitt has kindly stepped up as your new professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Please give Professor Dewitt a warm welcome!” There was a round of applause and cheers from all of the tables, although it was not as boisterous as the applause during the Sorting. A young blond witch waved warmly at the crowd from the table. “Since tomorrow is a Sunday, there will be no classes, and you are free to navigate the grounds as you please, provided you remember that the Forbidden Forest has its name for a reason.” There was another round of cheering at this news, and Dean figured that wizard kids liked having no school just as much as regular ones.

After everyone had settled down, Dumbledore spoke again. “Now that the formalities are out of the way, I only have four words to say to you: let the feast begin!” 

The moment Dumbledore said the words, the widest array of food that Dean had ever seen appeared on the tables. He simply stared. Never in his lifetime had he seen so many things to eat in one place. Although he wasn’t quite hungry again after gorging himself on the train, Dean had learned over the years that when there was food you should eat as much of it as humanly possible, even it had appeared magically out of thin air.

“Awesome,” he said with a grin, piling his plate with steak and fried potatoes.

“You should eat some vegetables, they’re good for you,” Katie managed to get out around a mouthful. 

It was something he would have said to Sammy, and Dean grinned at the memory. “Why would I choose to eat rabbit food when I could eat meat like a man?”

Whatever retort Katie was about to shoot at him was disrupted when a pair of redheads displaced an older carrot top student to sit across from Dean and Katie.

“Nice necklace,” said one.

“Is it true you pulled a knife on Nearly-Headless Nick?” asked the other.

“He did,” contributed Katie. Suddenly, the focus of everyone within earshot was turned to Dean. He ignored them all. The only sign that he was listening was that he had paused in eating for a moment to tuck his amulet under his shirt.

“Brilliant!” exclaimed the twins in unison.

“Pay up, Fred!” One held out his hand to the other, who laughed.

“Didn’t shake on it, did we, George?” said Fred with a wink.

“Shut it, you two,” said the older ginger with an air of familiar amusement. “Name’s Charlie, by the way. Why’d you do it, though?”

Dean shrugged. He didn’t feel like having to justify himself to these eagerly listening students who just wanted him as a piece of gossip. They didn’t seem to understand about vengeful spirits, and he didn’t want to be the one to educate them. Dean got the feeling that the second he began to discuss the supernatural with anyone and they found out he was a hunter’s kid he was going to become a curiosity or a pariah. When he saw the somewhat concerned look on Katie’s face, however, he realized that he would not be able to blow these other students off forever. And he didn’t want to alienate the one person he’d begun to become close to.

“You don’t happen to have another knife do you?” asked George earnestly. 

“Be brilliant if you did,” added Fred. Charlie elbowed him.

“McGonagall took my other one,” admitted Dean reluctantly.

“Why were you even carrying weapons?” Katie was looking at him strangely. He supposed the crazy boy who had waved a knife at a ghost was a very different boy than the laughing one Katie had thought she’d met on the train.

“You never know,” said Dean evasively.

“Hogwarts is really safe, though,” said Charlie. “I mean, half the reason parents trust the school with their kids is that it has the lowest death rate of any magical school in the world.”

“And other magic schools have a high death rate?” asked Dean incredulously, trying to steer the topic somewhere else.

“Hard to avoid, really,” said the older redhead. “I mean, putting a bunch of adolescents just learning how to use magic all together in one place? Some really nasty accidents can happen. Hogwarts manages to keep everyone safe, mostly. Think the last death was what, fifty years ago?”

Apparently, Dean had successfully derailed the questioning about his weapons cache, because the conversation turned to the school’s safety measures and the quirks of the professors who enforced them. As Dean encouraged a discussion about Professor McGonagall’s teaching habits, he caught a knowing smile from Charlie. Apparently the older boy had realized how uncomfortable their questioning had made him, and had allowed the conversation to be steered off course.

By the time dessert appeared, everyone seemed to have forgotten what had happened in the waiting room. Dean himself was feeling much more at ease, especially after discovering that pie was on the menu.

“Oh, hell yes,” he said reverently, taking a large slice of pecan in an almost religious manner.

By the time the last crumbs of food had vanished from the plates, Dean felt like he might have to roll away from the table. Once more, Dumbledore stood and faced the students to dismiss them. “I hope you all enjoyed the feast and are quite ready to retire to your dormitories. Your house prefects will show the way. Good night and toodle-loo!”

The Great Hall erupted into motion as over five hundred students got up and began to make their way to the exit. For a moment, Dean was lost in the crowd, but then he caught Charlie’s calls of “come on, you lot, follow me!” and was able to orient himself. He joined the group of other first years following the redhead as they navigated a series of halls and stairways. Dean tried to keep track of where they were going. He was proud of his relative success until he saw one of the staircases moving and realized that he was probably going to be very lost for a quite a while.

Charlie led the knot of first years to a painting of an enormously fat lady in a pink dress. ”Password?” she asked in a singsong voice.

“The password is bandersnatch,” said Charlie, half to the painting and half to the students. “Don’t forget it, you need it to get in here.”

The Fat Lady swung forward, revealing an opening behind her. “Welcome to Hogwarts, dearies,” came the voice from behind the frame.

Gryffindor Tower was warm and inviting. Everything was done and in red and gold, with a roaring fireplace and a number of armchairs that looked criminally comfortable. Despite all of his misgivings, Dean instantly felt at home.

“Right, you lot will probably be wanting to get some sleep. Boys are on the right and girls are on the left. No classes tomorrow, so sleep in!” Charlie grinned at all of them before he himself disappeared up the right staircase.

“Good night, then,” said Katie in an almost tentative voice. 

“See you tomorrow, I suppose.” Dean tried to smile at her and found that it was easy now. Katie returned the smile, and relief washed over him. He made his way up the staircase with the other boys and found that the dorms were done in the same colors as the common room. Eight four-poster beds done in dark red velvet had their things put next to them. Dean noticed with relief that his was right next to the door. 

The second thing Dean noticed was an envelope addressed to him on top of his trunk. He had a sinking suspicion that he knew what it was, but he had to be certain. Sure enough, an official looking form filled out in precise script greeted him when he opened the envelope.

NOTICE OF CONFISCATION

TO: Dean Winchester

IN ORDER TO PRESERVE THE SAFETY OF OUR STUDENT BODY, THE FOLLOWING ITEMS HAVE BEEN REMOVED FROM YOUR BELONGINGS:  
1 knife, iron  
1 knife, silver  
1 handgun, .45 caliber  
3 boxes ammunition, standard .45 caliber  
1 box ammunition, silver .45 caliber  
2 containers lighter fluid, 12 oz.   
THESE ITEMS WILL BE RETURNED AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE TERM. PLEASE CHECK THE ENCLOSED LIST OF PROHIBITED ITEMS TO PREVENT ANY FURTHER MISUNDERSTANDINGS. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.

Sure enough, when Dean checked in the false bottom of his trunk it was almost completely empty. The only things left behind were a few bags of salt, a book with some pages copied from his dad’s journal, and his lock picks, which were probably useless on wizard locks anyway. His duffel was similarly bereft of weaponry.

Shoving his things back into the trunk angrily, Dean wondered if this would have happened if he hadn’t been stupid enough to pull a knife in full view of a teacher. Probably, but that didn’t make him feel better about it. Instead, he felt trapped and alone. He pulled on his pajamas with more force than was strictly necessary and ignored the other students as he yanked the curtains on the four poster closed, shutting out the world.

Dean sat there in the darkness, breathing unevenly and trying to pretend he was somewhere he felt safe. If he squeezed his eyes shut, he could almost imagine that Sammy was curled up next to him, threatening to roll over and kick Dean in the face in the middle of the night. He could hear the ghost of his brother’s breathing and the occasional creak of the cheap motel mattress. But the breathing was just the boy next to him, and the Hogwarts beds didn’t creak. 

Something wet splashed onto his hand. Shoulder’s shaking, Dean willed himself to be stronger than this. He had made it so long without breaking down. But an overwhelming feeling of desolation was sweeping over him. He was in a magical school for people who weren’t fully human, where apparently ghosts roamed the halls and pictures could talk and he had no weapons, but worst of all he was completely separated from his family. The thoughts crowded forward, and Dean caved inwards.

It was all he could do to keep quiet as he cried. He curled up under the sheets, which felt too soft, and pressed his face into the pillow, which smelled too clean. A silent mess of trembling tension, Dean allowed himself just this one moment of weakness before the exhaustion of the day let him slip into an uneasy sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

When Dean woke up the next morning, he panicked momentarily, unsure of where he was and unnerved by the fact that someone had taken his gun from beneath his pillow. He managed to flail himself out of bed before the events of the previous day rushed back to him in a wave, knocking his feet out from under him and plopping him on the edge of the mattress. Scrubbing a hand against his face, Dean cast a glance at the seven other beds, still filled, and noted that the sun was only just up. After two nights of barely any sleep and two days filled with stress and anxiety, he wished that he wasn’t too keyed up to go back to sleep. Dean wondered how his father was able to get up after four hours and move as if he had slept for twelve.

An envelope on his nightstand addressed to him caught his attention, and Dean almost groaned. What else had they taken out of his belongings while he slept? Inside, however, was not another polite notice informing him that he was to be defenseless for the duration of his stay at the school. Instead of the official, blocky print, this note was written in neat script.

_Mr. Winchester,_

_Please come to my office at ten o’clock this morning after breakfast so that we can discuss your acclimation to the school. There are directions and a map on the back of this note. In the event that you get lost, please ask an older student for directions. Don’t be late._

_Sincerely,  
Professor McGonagall_

Sure enough, when he flipped over the note a neatly drawn map with a column of written instructions swirled into view. Dean dropped the note to the covers, heart racing. The thought of meeting that stern faced witch alone and on her own terms sent shivers down his spine. Although she hadn’t threatened or even hurt him while disarming him, he could practically feel the power coming off of her and that much energy screamed “threat” in his mind. There was also something eerie about the word “acclimation,” and Dean wondered if he was just being paranoid when his thoughts went instantly to mind control.

Whatever faint hope of getting more sleep Dean had possessed before opening the note was gone now. Instead, he got dressed (leaving off the robe, hell if he was going wear that damn thing unless forced to) and went to explore the boy’s bathroom. It proved unremarkable and comfortably mundane. He did his best to erase the signs of the previous night’s weakness, and was reasonably happy with his success. 

Back in the dormitory, Dean sat on the edge of the bed again, fidgety. His watch told him it was only just after seven, and he had no idea what to do with himself other than have a repeat of last night’s emotional crisis. He rummaged through his things, looking for something familiar, but the only thing he found was a worn Spiderman comic that Sammy had probably shoved in between his clothes when no one was watching. He ended up fiddling with his amulet for five minutes before shooting to his feet. Dean was a doer, and he’d be damned if he was going to sit around moping like some lovesick school girl.

Exiting the portrait hole and ignoring the mumbled good morning of the Fat Lady, Dean resolved to get a better grasp of the layout of the school. Much to his relief the halls were almost completely empty, and whenever he heard footsteps he silently moved in the other direction. In an hour of wandering, Dean had yet to encounter the same hallway twice and was beginning to enjoy himself. Once he got past the moving paintings and shifting staircases the castle was quite fascinating and had a number of nooks and crannies to explore. He eventually found himself at a door leading to the grounds. They looked different in the crisp light; the air of mystery was gone and several other students were wandering about. It was almost like visiting a large park, except for the giant castle on the hill and tentacles protruding from the lake. 

As the grounds began to grow more crowded, Dean’s stomach alerted him that it was time to seek out something to eat. His watch agreed, letting him know that it was now a quarter after nine. After his somewhat thorough exploration of the castle finding his way back to the Great Hall was less difficult, and with the help of his nose he was able to locate breakfast. 

Dean would never admit it, but he was pleased to see Katie sitting at the Gryffindor table, chatting amicably with two other students. When she spotted him, she waved him over, and he took a seat across from her next to a skinny boy with curly black hair. The boy gave Dean a slightly nervous look as he spread butter on his toast that Dean ignored.

“Wow, you really are slow, aren’t you?” Apparently this was Katie’s form of greeting, because she said it with a smile.

“I was up at dawn,” Dean grumbled, scooping some scrambled eggs onto his plate.

“That just means you’re extra slow. Not even girls take that long to get dressed, Dean.” She let it go, though, and instead introduced him to the two other students. “Anyway, this is Ritchie-“ the wiry kid “-and Demelza.”

“Demy,” said the blond girl automatically, as if she was used to correcting people.

“Demy,” Katie amended. “And you guys already know Dean because I just said his name.” She smiled brightly, making Dean feel slightly uncomfortable. He raised his fork in greeting, as his mouth was already full. Both of them were giving him odd looks, probably because both of them already knew him as the crazy kid. 

“Anyway,” continued Katie cheerfully as if she didn’t notice the tension, “We were just talking about going to explore the castle and grounds after we finish eating. You should come with us!”

Dean swallowed. “I, uh, actually have something to take care of after this.” The note in his pocket crinkled slightly, and Dean decided he’d much rather spend the morning with a group of freaky wizard kids than with their frightening teacher.

“What might that be?” asked Demelza with the air of someone who spent a lot of time gossiping. 

Dean was somewhat reluctant to answer, seeing as it was his business and he hardly knew this girl, but a look at Katie made him spit it out. “Professor McGonagall wants to talk to me.” 

“Well, it’s probably because you tried to stab someone. I mean, most people tend to be a bit concerned about that kind of thing.” Demelza had apparently mastered the art of sarcasm, and Dean glowered at her.

“I didn’t try to stab a _person_ ,” he snapped, stabbing a sausage hard enough to send it flying. 

Silence fell for a moment, the other three staring, and Dean sighed. He couldn’t risk turning anyone against him, not in an environment of so many unknowns. “Look,” he said, “I’m afraid of ghosts, okay? And I had a knife on me because I spend a lot of time hu- because I’ve been attacked before. I’m not some homicidal psycho. Capisce?”

This seemed to be enough to smooth things over. “You should probably get a better gut reaction, then,” said Katie. Dean almost glared at her, but she had a joking tone to her voice that meant she was letting it go.

“I’ll get a better gut reaction when you get a better sense of humor,” Dean muttered, and was startled when Ritchie let out a loud laugh before clapping his hands to his mouth.

Ice broken, the conversation slowly turned to less harmful topics. Once again, Dean was confused by how normal everything was once he got past the magical bits. He found himself liking Ritchie, who had puppy-dog eyes to rival Sam’s, and his annoyance at Demelza’s high-pitched voice was no more than usual.

After a while, Dean realized he should leave or else risk being late. “Well, folks, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay, but now it's time for me to go,” he quoted even though none of them seemed to get it. Standing, he pulled the crumpled note from his pocket. 

The others rose with him. “Meet us for lunch at noon?” asked Katie.

“If I survive,” Dean said. The others laughed even as the pit in Dean’s stomach seemed to grow. He waved goodbye, and then set out to find McGonagall’s office.

The map was surprisingly helpful, and seemed to adjust itself periodically to accommodate the moving staircases. As a result, it only took him five minutes to find the door to McGonagall’s office, meaning he’d arrived early. Dread made it difficult for him to raise his hand to knock, so he was surprised when the door swung open without any input from him.

“Come in, Mr. Winchester,” came Professor McGonagall’s unmistakable voice.

It took all of Dean’s nerve to step over the threshold. As he entered the office, he took stock of its contents automatically. Professor McGonagall was seated at a desk stacked neatly with papers, writing something with a quill. A fireplace, currently dark, was installed in one wall with a painting over the mantelpiece. There were several sets of shelves and drawers, and only one other door. Two windows looked out over the grounds, but were too narrow to be considered potential escape routes.

McGonagall finished whatever she was writing and put the quill down. “Have a seat,” she said, indicating the chair in front of her desk and turning her sharp gaze on him. Dean obeyed, watching the professor warily and judging the distance to the door out of habit.

“You know, you have a smile that lights up the room,” said Dean’s mouth without first consulting his brain. He felt what little blood was left in his face drain away, but Professor McGonagall seemed completely unfazed by his comment, although she kept her stern gaze on him.

She let him fidget for a moment before speaking. “You’ve put us in a difficult position Mr. Winchester.”

“You can call me Dean, sweetheart.” His brain put forth a motion to regain control of the conversation, but his mouth appeared to be on autopilot.

McGonagall turned the intensity of her bitch-face up to eleven before asking, “Do you think you’re funny?”

“I think I’m adorable.” Apparently Dean’s brain had decided to cut its losses and jump ship without posting a notice of resignation.

“I would appreciate it if you took this conversation seriously.” Dean opened his mouth, but McGonagall’s steely glare made him close it again. “Thank you. I understand your prejudices very well, but I expect you can keep a civil tongue in your head for the duration of this meeting.”

Dean clenched his hands together and bit back the insolent commentary that was just begging to come out of his mouth. Professor McGonagall seemed satisfied with his silence and relaxed her face muscles slightly. “I had planned on speaking with you even before last night’s fiasco, but it is even more apparent now that you were not adequately prepared to come here. I suppose I couldn’t expect Professor Burbage to understand what exactly needed to be explained to you prior to your arrival.”

“Hey, Professor Burbage is a nice lady. She didn’t hold my shooting at her against me at all.” 

“’Nice’ and ‘intelligent’ are not always traits that are in common.” She looked over her glasses at him. “And some of us are in possession of neither.”

Before Dean could object to this slander, McGonagall continued to speak. “My point was, however, that I can barely comprehend how your upbringing has affected your view on your heritage- and yes, magic is your heritage, it’s in your blood.” 

“Everything Dad taught me has been useful so far,” said Dean stubbornly, ignoring the witch’s emphasis on his wizard nature.

McGonagall frowned slightly. “I am sure that whatever your father taught you is relevant to Muggles who have to deal with monsters, but you will find that almost none of it applies to wizards and witches. We’re much better protected against the various nasty things the supernatural world can produce.”

“Yeah, well if that’s true, why aren’t you chuckleheads helping to clean up all the messes that magic has made? People die all the time because of this shit!” Dean found himself raising his voice despite his intentions to not fight with the professor.

“Because not all magical problems are our responsibility just because we have magic,” said McGonagall in a calm voice that annoyed Dean even more. “There’s a department of the Ministry of Magic set up to deal with problems caused by wizards, and another one to deal with the things that are too powerful for Muggles to handle. Some wizards act like hunters and take on the supernatural on their own as well, but most of us simply want to live normal, happy lives, just like many Muggles you’ve met.”

This line of thinking infuriated Dean. “You can’t just sit back and let bad things happen when you have the power to stop it! No one ever asks Dad to help them, but he does, because just watching and living your normal apple pie life while people are dying is wrong!”

Something about Professor McGonagall’s piercing stare softened momentarily. “Sacrificing yourself for someone else is never a responsibility. It’s a choice that some people make.” Her gaze sharpened again. “But this is not what we are here to talk about. I know that I can’t convince you either way. There are certain things you need explained that other students do not.”

Dean ground his teeth together, wanting to continue to argue his point but knowing that it would get him nowhere. He hated to give the victory to the professor by allowing the topic to be changed. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and spread his arms, trying to act like he wasn’t bothered in the least. “Fine. Then lay it on me.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes, seeing right through his act, but switched into lecture mode without any hesitation. “First, I want to make clear is that under no circumstances are you to attack anyone or anything at Hogwarts. If another student wants to start a fight with you, I’m sure you’ll find it well within your ability to walk away. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Dean, glaring at her and crossing his arms. “Act like I’m a chicken shit and pansy out every time I feel threatened. Check.”

“The second thing,” said Professor McGonagall with an edge to remind Dean to stop smart mouthing her, “is that many of the things you have been taught are dangerous are not. The ghosts you found so offensive, for example, are not like the spirits left behind by Muggles. They almost never become vengeful.”

“How is that possible?” asked Dean. 

Surprisingly, McGonagall was not particularly annoyed by the interruption, although she still wore an expression of disapproval. “If a wizard chooses not to move on when they die, their magic sustains them, preventing the spiritual decay that causes the deceased to become violent. It also protects them from traditional methods of dispelling spirits, such as iron and salt.”

Great. So there was a whole brand of ghosts out there immune to salt and iron. He’d have to tell his dad about that, once he figured out how they were supposed to communicate. In fact, he got the feeling that half of his time here would be spent doing research of some form or another to help with the things wizards were more informed about.

“We also have a resident poltergeist.”

“What?” Dean exclaimed, mouth falling open.

McGonagall sighed. “We use the same name for different things. Muggles say poltergeist and mean a vengeful spirit that can move objects around with its will, whereas we use poltergeist to describe an entirely different kind of entity.”

“And that would be…?” Dean asked, staring incredulously at the professor.

“This kind of poltergeist is created in places where a large number of magical adolescents gather, such as in schools. Peeves is… well. He’s a nuisance, for certain, but harmless. His hobbies include wandering the halls pelting students with erasers and singing obscene songs loudly outside of classrooms. I’m surprised he didn’t show up to harass the first years; I suppose the Bloody Baron must have scared him off.”

Dean could wrap his mind around that, at least. Certainly the name poltergeist sounded menacing, and the ability to throw objects around was familiar. Professor McGonagall’s matter-of-fact tone was making it easier to accept the crazy things she was telling him. He wanted to disbelieve her, but it was getting harder and harder to stick his fingers in his ears and shout loudly to the wizarding world that he would have nothing to do with the lot of them. Dean was a great supporter of “seeing is believing,” considering he had seen most of the crap the world had to offer, and he had never been able to deny the evidence before his own eyes. And right now, the evidence he had seen only supported the idea that some of the things he had accepted as obvious truths might not apply to the wizarding community.

He quickly cut off that train of thought. “Anything else I need to know?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Professor McGonagall’s face soured again at his tone, and Dean resisted the urge to tell her it would stick that way if she wasn’t careful. “There are a great many creatures on campus that you shouldn’t try to kill. Just assume that, unless you’re being violently attacked, you are not to try to murder anything, no matter how fearsome it may look.”

“Generally, if something looks like it can kill me, it’s going to try to.”

“Even the most horrific creatures can be docile,” was McGonagall’s response. “Have you seen someone die before, Dean?”

He shifted uncomfortably for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said, shrugging as if it wasn’t a big deal and not making eye contact.

While he was looking away, he missed the sad expression that flickered briefly over her face. “There is a creature we employ here, called a thestral, that you can only see after having watched someone die. Once visible, it appears to be a skeletal horse with bat wings.” A strange smile quirked on her face. “Some have described it as appearing almost satanic. Although it feeds on raw meat, it is almost completely docile, and will only attack if provoked.”

“Okay… So, don’t attack the flying horse skeletons.” Dean shrugged, arms still crossed. “Was there a point other than that?”

“My point is that you need to stop thinking about things the way you were taught to, and start using your brain, or at least the little bit of it that functions.”

Dean’s temper flared at the insult. “Are we done here?” he snapped, standing. 

Professor McGonagall gave him a long look, before finally saying, “I suppose we are. Just try to think before you act, and I’m sure you can avoid making the whole year a debacle. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Winchester.”

Dean seethed at her ability to make it look like she was dismissing him and tried to make it look like he wasn’t storming out of her office in a fit of rage. He attempted to convince himself that he succeeded, but even he wasn’t buying it.

He stalked through the halls and eventually found himself at the library. It had the advantages of being large, quiet, and almost completely empty. In spite of being in a magic castle it reminded him of the countless public libraries he and his father had gone to for research. The thought was vaguely comforting, and Dean found a corner in which he could sulk. 

He wouldn’t have admitted that he was sulking in the same way he wouldn’t have admitted that he had stormed out of McGonagall’s office rather childishly, but dark thoughts were running through his head. They came thick and fast, jumbled up together, and Dean didn’t know how to deal with them. He was no longer certain why he was upset or who he ought to be angry with. He took turns hating Professor Burbage for getting him into this mess, Professor McGonagall for being so condescending, wizards in general for existing, and finished the list by hating himself for being a wizard in the first place. 

Dean might have worked himself into a deeper funk had he not happened to look at his watch and notice that it was almost noon. That made him think of Katie. She was a witch. Everything he had ever learned and ever felt told him that he should despise her and try to kill her on instinct. But he couldn’t conjure up even a smidgen of loathing. Her first impression of him had been him almost punching her, and she’d been kind enough to try to be his friend anyway. Even after he’d waved a knife around like a madman she had still treated him like a human being. There was absolutely no way that she was capable of anything dark, or even a little bit mean spirited beyond the scope of a practical joke.

After several minutes of trying not to follow this chain of logic to its inevitable conclusion, Dean stalked out of the library. Motion would serve well to distract him from his thoughts, and food would certainly go a long way towards this goal. The Great Hall was half-full by the time he got there, some students for a very late breakfast and others having just wandered in from the grounds. Katie, Ritchie, and Demelza didn’t appear to be among those at the Gryffindor table so he took a seat towards the empty end and waited. The loud buzz of chatter made it difficult for him to pick out individual sounds, so he was taken completely by surprise when someone put their hands over his eyes and chirped, “Guess who?”

Dean jumped so hard he might have launched into orbit had he not met the table on the way up. He had Katie’s hand halfway around into an arm lock before he realized what was going on and let her go. “Son of a bitch!” he half-bellowed. “You’re worse than Sam! Are you nuts?”

The volume level got him some strange looks from fellow diners, but Katie only grinned as she slipped into the seat next to him and leaned over to snag a sandwich. Ritchie and Demelza weren’t quite so at ease, and carefully placed themselves on the other side of the table. “Actually, I think you’re the one who’s a few ingredients short of a potion, but you can call names if it makes you feel better.”

“Who’s Sam?” asked Demelza, proving herself to actually be the nosiest person in existence.

“None of your-“

“His brother,” Katie said cheerfully, taking a large bite of her sandwich.

“Traitor,” Dean muttered.

Katie elbowed him. “Play nice.”

“What are you, my mother?”

“Ooooh,” said Demelza, a glint in her eye.

“So, uh, did you see the giant squid this morning?” stammered Ritchie with the air of someone wanting to change the topic of conversation very quickly.

From there, lunch went much the same as breakfast. Dean found himself the subject of a bet when Demelza wondered out loud if his stomach was actually a bottomless pit. No money changed hands, but Ritchie (the winner at an accurate guess of eleven sandwiches) got to pick where they would set off to explore after lunch. He chose the library, and Dean’s second experience with the place was a lot more fun than the first. No matter how hard he tried to be miserable in the presence of the other three, it was absolutely not allowed by some unknown force. 

The rest of the day passed quickly, with Dean growing freer and more relaxed with the other students. The evening was punctuated by a series of small explosions when the other three tried to teach Dean how to play Exploding Snap. He refused to participate on the grounds that he liked his fingers where they were, thank-you-very-much, but soon enough he found himself sucked in and winning by a wide margin.

“You have to be cheating!” exclaimed Demelza after he claimed his fourth hand in a row.

“Dude, are you kidding? If you think this is hard, you should try to beat my Dad at Texas Hold ’em. It’s impossible!”

By the time the prefects started nagging younger students to go to bed, a large knot of students, mostly first and second years, had gathered around, placing bets and trying to figure out how Dean was able to shuffle a deck and get the right card to appear on top every time without any magic. When Dean was finally bullied into his dormitory by a particularly determined fourth year with flaming red hair (“We have classes tomorrow, you know! Some of us want to sleep!”), he realized that he had not only survived his first day but enjoyed himself quite a lot by the end of it. He might have kept awake pondering this if it weren’t for the fact that he was dead tired after two nights of almost no sleep. Despite his best efforts to become sulky and morose in the comfort of darkness, exhaustion pulled him under within minutes of his head touching the pillow.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s first class ever was Herbology. 

It was probably the best introduction to wizard schooling he could have gotten. He had woken up feeling refreshed but incredibly nervous, to the point where he had eaten hardly any breakfast to the amazement of all. The fact that an enormous swarm of owls had bombarded the Great Hall, in what he was informed was a daily occurrence, had certainly not helped his appetite. Professor Sprout, with her cheerful, no-nonsense manner, began the class by giving a brief tour of Greenhouse One. All of the plants inside were completely harmless, much to Dean’s relief. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from jumping when he first saw them moving of their own accord and shrank away whenever something reached an inquisitive tendril towards him.

Dean quickly learned that getting a magical education was rather like getting a regular one. Professor Sprout encouraged them take a lot of notes as she identified various plants and how to care for them, although she didn’t force them to. She didn’t ask them to use any magic at all, and by the end of the class Dean felt ten times more relaxed and was beginning to wonder once again if coming to Hogwarts was actually the worst thing that had happened to him since the night of the fire.

This feeling of well-being quickly fled when Katie reminded him that their next class was Transfiguration, taught by Professor McGonagall.

“Dammit,” Dean swore. “That witch hates me already.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise,” said Demelza. If she had been a bit more like Katie, he might have tried to smack her on the back of the head for the comment.

“It’s not, actually; she’s a mean spirited bit-“

“Dean, she’s our Head of House!” exclaimed Katie. 

“Doesn’t change the fact that she loathes me already and is going to make my life hell,” Dean grumbled. “People like her are the reason-“ he stopped and shook his head. Although he had begun to become friends with the other three students, he was a long way from trying to explain his background to any of them.

“She’ll be fair about it,” said Ritchie helpfully, ignoring Dean’s hanging statement. “McGonagall always is, unlike some teachers. I’m not looking forward to Friday; I heard that Professor Snape is a nightmare for anyone who isn’t in Slytherin.” They arrived at the Transfiguration room. It was similar to normal classrooms Dean had been in, but had a medieval theme instead of plain white walls and furniture made of synthetic materials. 

“Wish I didn’t have any classes at all,” mumbled Dean. He ignored the looks this comment got him and slid into a seat. His heart rate was escalating again despite the fact that he was pretty sure nothing bad was going to happen to him at the moment.

Whatever response he was going to get was cut off as Professor McGonagall entered the classroom and the chattering students all fell silent. She was the kind of teacher who could instantly earn her students’ respect, or at least their silence. 

“Welcome to your first lesson in Transfiguration.” She surveyed the classroom, staring at Dean in particular. “This is one of the most complex and dangerous kinds of magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone I catch fooling around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

And then she turned her desk into a pig. There was a lot of applause from the other students, but Dean just noted that he was not nearly as intimidated, impressed, or surprised as he should have been. Someone with a large vocabulary might have called it desensitization, but long story short Dean was getting used to seeing impossible things happen in front of him.

From there, class only went downhill. First, McGonagall gave a long, complicated lecture on the basic theory of Transfiguration, with notes mandatory this time. Dean resentfully took down the bare minimum and was extremely glad that he had possessed the good sense to bring an actual pen with him, since most of the other students were using quills that looked incredibly cumbersome. He was having a hard time following the thread of the lecture as it was.

After forty minutes of this tedium, McGonagall passed out matches and told them to start trying to turn them into needles. Dean felt a nervous flutter in his stomach as he reluctantly pulled his wand out of his bag. He was about to try to do magic, directed and on purpose, for the first time in his life. It was somehow different than all of his previous accidental magic and the time in Ollivanders. His wand felt warm in his hand as he gave himself an internal pep-talk, convincing himself that he was just trying to turn a match into a needle, that nothing sinister was going on, and that he actually needed to do it. Finally, Dean worked up the nerve to try the spell. He did the wand motion, said the words, and…

Nothing happened.

Dean stared at the match. It seemed to stare back at him. He wasn’t really sure if he ought to feel quite so intimidated by a stick of wood, especially when he was holding a much larger stick of his own. 

“Staring at it isn’t going to make it change, Dean,” whispered Katie.

“Shut up,” he hissed back, not looking away from the match. Who knew what it might do if he dared to relax his vigilance. 

The answer, whether he relaxed his vigilance or not, was apparently “nothing.” Dean spent the next fifteen minutes of class alternating between desperately wanting to the spell to work and hoping that it never did. By the end of class, he though the match might have looked a little bit pointier, but that could have just been a trick of the light. At least he hadn’t made it light itself, as Katie had while angrily poking it. Most of the other students had gotten no results either, with only two people having anything resembling a needle. 

After lunch was History of Magic, which Dean quickly learned was the actual most boring class in existence. He usually found things with the word “history” in them dull, although he often forced himself to pay attention when anything related to lore was involved. This class turned out to be especially mind-numbing, however, likely due to the fact that it was taught by a ghost. Dean still couldn’t stop himself from twitching every time he saw a spirit, but so far McGonagall didn’t seem to be lying about them being harmless. Professor Binns had quickly proved to be the boring remains of an old teacher so ground into his daily routine that he kept teaching out of habit after he died. In fact, halfway through the class Dean felt so relaxed that he began to nod off.

“Well, I think I know which class I’m failing this year,” said Katie cheerfully as she packed her bag.

“You and me both,” said Demelza, and the two high-fived. The sound of their hands coming together brought Dean back to reality, and the others laughed at his startled face.

By the time dinner rolled around, some of the tension Dean had been feeling ever since Professor Burbage knocked on his hotel door had been released. Although he had begun to relax a bit upon meeting his fellow students and was now almost completely certain that none of them wanted to brutally maim or kill anyone, the idea of having to learn magic had still bothered him. He had been unsure of what to expect, but so far lessons had been surprisingly mundane. Dean had never thought he would be relieved to sit through a day of school, but the fact that the system at Hogwarts was so similar to public education was comforting.

“So what’ve we got tomorrow?” asked Ritchie as they took seats in the Great Hall.

“Let’s see…” Katie pulled a paper out of her pocket and read, “Herbology again, Charms, and then Defense Against the Dark Arts in the afternoon.”

“Last one might be cool,” Dean said. If magic could be used to fight the dark things of the supernatural world, he would stop complaining about having to learn it.

“I’m really excited for Charms,” chattered Demelza. “I want to do some magic that actually works. Transfiguration was really disappointing, you know? All those notes and the really long lecture and then the spell didn’t even work!”

The others gave their assent, but Dean just shrugged. “I didn’t mind, really. It was just a normal class.”

That was enough to make Katie decide that three days of cryptic comments and question dodging was enough. “Dean,” she began. “What’s up with you and magic?”

“What?” he asked, pretending that he hadn’t heard the question and suddenly not feeling terribly hungry.

“Stop pretending not to hear me when I ask you questions, Dean,” Katie said, not fooled at all and sounding exasperated. “You’re not deaf or stupid.”

“Don’t be so certain about that second one, Katie,” quipped Demelza, smirking at Dean in challenge.

“Stop projecting your own insecurities onto me, Demy,” said Dean, false sweetness dripping from every word.

The conversation might have derailed then and there if Katie hadn’t plowed on. “Guys, come on. I’m trying to have a serious conversation here.” That got a snort from Ritchie which Katie didn’t deign to acknowledge. “Look, Dean, it’s just, whenever something kind of magic happens, you freak out.”

“Oh, come on,” Dean said, trying to deflect her. “I freaked out once, are you really not going to let me live that down?”

“No, I’m not, because it’s not just one incident; you almost punched me when we first met!” This was apparently news to Ritchie and Demelza, because they exchanged glances.

“What does that have to do with magic?”

“I don’t know, that’s what you should be telling me! And it’s not just that either." Katie took a deep breath and Dean braced himself for a speech. "You jump out of your skin every time you see a ghost. You freaked out when you saw the magical plants in the greenhouse moving, even if you didn't try to stab any of them. When Professor McGonagall told us to take our wands out of our bags you acted like she was making you kick a puppy. And can we talk about how your gut reaction to everything seems to be to punch it in the face? I've been ignoring it because when you're not acting like a crazy person you're actually a decent guy and fun to hang out with, but I think I deserve an explanation so I can hazard a guess at when you're going to do something insane!" 

"Wow, I had no idea you spent so much time staring at me, Katie," said Dean with as much sarcasm as he could manage as soon as he was sure she was done talking. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"She's right, though," said Ritchie timidly.

Dean was about to bite his head off, but Ritchie had put on the puppy dog expression that made Dean's big brother instinct kick in. "What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?" He pointed his fork at Ritchie. "You are eleven. That is way too old for you to be allowed to use that expression."

Dean wanted the conversation to devolve into the mindless chatter most eleven-year-olds tended to engage in, but none of his friends obliged. Instead, he was growing more and more uncomfortable. He didn't want to talk about this. He was having a hard enough time trying to work through his issues already. Half the time he was able to forget how much he was supposed to hate magic and witches and wizards, and half the time the feelings of fear and suspicion and self-loathing came crashing down on him.

"Dean," said Katie, voice filled with both pleading and reproach. "We're friends, right? Or on our way to being, at least."

"Look, I-" Dean searched desperately for what to say, trying to think of how to throw them off and ensure that this conversation wouldn’t happen ever again. "I really don't want to talk about it, okay?"

Demelza opened her mouth this time, but he cut her off. "That doesn't mean I'm not going to, so don't start nagging." He rubbed his hand through his hair. "I don't... Did you even have an actual question?"

"Why do you hate magic so much?" Katie repeated, annoyed but with the feeling that she might finally be getting somewhere.

"Because in my experience nothing good ever came of it," said Dean finally.

"What experience?" said Demelza with an eye roll. "You've been at Hogwarts what, three days? What could magic possibly have done to you?"

"It killed my mom is what," snapped Dean. "She was burned alive on the ceiling when I was four."

He hadn’t meant to say that, but it had worked. The other three stared at him in shocked silence. 

"Have fun playing twenty questions, guys,” he said, putting down his fork and pushing away his plate. Instead of waiting for an response, he stood up.

"Dean, wait!" Katie grabbed his sleeve. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

Dean wanted to pull out of her grip an tell her that yeah, she should be sorry. He wanted to yell at her for reminding him of why he was supposed to hate her. He wanted to run and just keep running until he was somewhere far away from castles and witches and classes which casually broke the laws of physics, until he found Dad and Sammy so he could forget about all of this insanity and go back to having a black and white morality where he knew who was the enemy. 

Instead, he took a look at her pleading face and sighed. "Look, let's just not talk about it, okay?"

"Alright. I’m sorry. Just… There's pie again tonight," said Katie in a small voice. Dean stared at her for a second, and then sat down.

"Oh, of course he stays for the pie," scoffed Demelza. "I swear, you just don't stop eating, do you? You realize that the second you stop growing you are going to get fat as a pig if you keep eating like you do now?"

"I'm just trying to catch up to you, sweetheart," Dean parried. Demelza let out a shriek of frustration while Katie and Ritchie laughed, and soon everything they had just been fighting over was forgotten. Dean knew that the subject wouldn’t come up again for a while and was glad, because it made him feel sick and shaky all over. Partly because he still didn’t trust the others and partly because he didn’t trust himself, he wanted to keep his real life as separate from Hogwarts and magic as possible.


	11. Chapter 11

The next few days of classes were similar to the first. Dean was anxious and determined in turns, and had more trouble sleeping than usual. Each new subject began with Dean sitting tensely, waiting for something awful that never came. By the end he would relax, only to be wound up again when the next class started.

Charms, which was taught by the incredibly tiny Professor Flitwick, proved to be a lot simpler than Transfiguration. They spent the entire first week studying theory and breaking down the different wand movements used in casting. Flitwick promised that by next week they would begin the practical work, which set the class to cheering. This time, none of his fellow students bothered Dean about his lack of enthusiasm. He was glad to have convinced them to leave him alone, even if it had meant bringing up some of his worst memories.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was the class that Dean was actually curious about. From everything he had heard, it would be the class in which students learned spells that could be used in combat and studied the dangerous supernatural threats of the magical world. Although Dean wasn't quite excited, he was anticipating his first lesson and had even dared to take a peek into the textbook. As far as he could tell, the curriculum was factually accurate. The other students were just plain excited since it could be one of the most interesting classes of the year.

"Could be?" asked Dean when he was informed of this.

"Yeah," said Katie. "It really depends on the teacher."

"The job's jinxed," said Demelza. "No one has managed to stay professor for more than a year. You heard about Charbridge at the feast, right? With the tentacles all over his face?" Dean nodded, vaguely remembering something of the sort, but had been rather disoriented at the time and hadn't thought about it. "Well, he was one of the lucky ones; apparently a bunch of them have died. The jinx has been in place for years, and no one can figure out how to lift it or who did it."

"What I don't understand is why people keep coming to teach it," said Ritchie. "I mean, I wouldn't. It's not brave, just stupid."

"Wow. That is just plain crazy." That was also the kind of magic Dean was used to dealing with, and he was already thinking about the curse might have started and how it might be broken. He stopped himself as he opened his mouth to get more information, however. It wasn't a case he was working. If a crazy wizard had done it, the other crazy wizards couldn't undo it, and only crazy wizards were being affected by it, then it was none of his business.

The class turned out to be a lot less fun than anyone had expected, although it was certainly interesting. Right off the bat Dean could tell something was off about Professor Dewitt. For one, she was completely barefoot and walked like she was afraid she might hurt the ground. Her robes were a pale blue that matched her eyes, setting her apart from the generally black robed crowd.

"Hello," she said in a cheerful voice once all the students had arrived. "I'm Professor Dewitt, and will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Hopefully we'll come to be good friends over the course of the year." She stopped there for a long moment, looking at the students with a vague air of confusion before clapping her hands suddenly. "Right, well, stand up, grab your wands, and take your shoes off!"

Dean looked around and saw that all the other students were just as confused as him at these instructions. Hesitantly he obeyed, wondering what the blond witch was planning. Once everyone was standing in their bare feet, Dewitt drew her wand. With a flick of her wrist she sent the desks to either side of the classroom, along with all of their bags. There was a moment of chaos as students dodged the flying objects. Dean was one of the only people to get away unscathed, and several students were lying on the floor looking dazed and petrified.

Dewitt smiled at all of them as if this had been some kind of brilliant trick. "I don't know why the desks weren't set up like this to begin with. Now come on, let's all sit in a circle. Don't worry about your books, you won't be needing them."

The battered students obeyed, tentatively forming a crooked oval that might have passed for a circle if the person watching had very poor eyesight. The shape was largely due to everyone's enthusiasm to stay as far away from the professor as possible. “Closer, closer! Don’t be shy!” She gave them all a sunny smile. 

“Is she serious?” Dean muttered, shuffling a bit without actually moving any closer. Katie just shook her head, nursing a bruised shoulder.

The teacher was silent for a moment, scanning her audience with a happy, vacant look on her face before asking, “What’s the best defense against the dark?”

The quick change of topics took the class by surprise. The students exchanged glances amongst themselves and shifted uncomfortably for a moment, no one willing to speak up. Finally, one Ravenclaw said hesitantly, “Light?”

This brief bit of insight was apparently what Dewitt had been looking for, because her sunny disposition turned blinding. “Exactly! When it’s dark, you don’t know what’s going on around you and can’t properly defend yourself, so of course the best defense against the dark is light. The only thing we have to fear is the unknown.”

Dean’s first thought was that this was bullshit. He knew of plenty of horrible things that could kill or maim him, and they were perfectly frightening. He didn’t get the chance to voice his objections, however, because Dewitt was still speaking.

“So, if the light is the best defense against the dark and this is a class devoted to learning how to defend yourselves against the dark arts, it makes sense that the first spell you will be learning is a spell that creates light!” The words came out in a rush. Dewitt drew her wand and chirped, “Lumos!” 

The tip began to glow with a bright, steady light. No one in the class was terribly impressed, but Dewitt didn’t seem to be looking to catch their attention and only gave out (somewhat) clearer instructions on how to cast the spell. From there, the class descended into chaos. Dean wasn’t sure what planet Dewitt had come from, but it must have been a pretty special place if a group of children could be expected to behave given minimal instructions and magical tools before being set loose. Even more surprisingly, the teacher did not seem bothered at all, but merely complimented the two students who had already managed to make a light.

By this point, Dean was pretty certain that even if he was a wizard he wasn’t very good at magic. He hadn’t been able to work any spells in Transfiguration, after all, and it had taken him an incredibly long time to find a wand that would actually work for him. So when he went through the motions for the spell he fully expected nothing to happen.

Instead, he once again got the impression that there was something warm and alive in his hand, and the tip of the wand began to glow. Dean cursed, dropping it, and the tiny light went out. 

“Don’t worry, the light isn’t hot,” said Dewitt airily as the rest of the class laughed. For a moment, Dean was too distracted by his embarrassment at being so clumsy to freak out about the fact that he’d actually managed to get a spell to work on command. He was further distracted by class ending, and it wasn’t until they were well out of the classroom that the realization hit him full on. He waited for the panic to settle in.

It didn’t. He was, surprisingly enough, okay with it. That thought felt traitorous, and it went against everything Dean had ever learned. But he couldn’t force himself to feel tense and anxious about his use of magic. It had felt right, even if he would never, ever voice that thought or even think it too loudly. 

If it hadn’t been for Potions on Friday, Dean might have even decided he liked the idea of being a wizard.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I would like to apologize for the ridiculous wait I put all of you through. I don't really have a good excuse, except maybe shit happens and well, that's life. Plus, hey, it's not like I'm being paid! The good news is that I have the next two chapters mostly written, and will probably get them up much sooner than this one.
> 
> On another note, I must apologize for any choppiness in this chapter. That's because I have been working on it bit by bit over the past five months from various different emotional states, which is probably reflected in the tone. Also, I'm super open to critique, so if you see a problem or have a comment, say something! Feedback of all types (except mindless insults) is appreciated!

The dungeons did not match the aesthetic of the rest of the castle. Dean wasn’t a fan of the ghosts in the halls or moving staircases, but he had to admit that Hogwarts was cool in a sort of “stepped into Camelot” way. Inside of Snape’s classroom, however, was a completely different story. For one, it was dark and dank, lit by candles that leant only a marginal amount of clarity to the objects that lined the classroom walls. Upon closer observation these objects proved to be jars filled with questionable ingredients and pickled animals that made Dean wish he hadn’t figured out what they were. 

Dean’s spine began to crawl. This was the kind of place that witches were supposed to inhabit. He wondered if this was the class in which the school would teach them black magic, and what would happen to him if he refused to participate. Nervously he began to run through the instructions John had given him for if he needed to get out of Hogwarts. 

“Relax,” Katie whispered near his ear and Dean started, not having noticed how close she was. Instead of a witty retort Dean made a face and took a seat, too tense to be in the spirit of banter.

His idea that this was where they would learn the kind of magic his dad hunted people down for was further confirmed when Professor Snape swooped into the classroom. The teacher looked like a villain from a children’s book, from his dark, greasy hair and sallow skin to his flowing black robes. 

The entire class fell silent without any prompting, as if sensing that a dangerous predator had just entered into their midst. The only sound was a faint drip in the distance and the crinkling of parchment as Snape unrolled the attendance list. Without any preamble, he began the roll call, voice a cold drawl that gave Dean’s goose bumps chills.

Snape seemed to take particular pleasure in building the class’s anticipation, and Dean noticed that he was not the only one who looked intimidated among the Gryffindors. Even a few of the Slytherins appeared apprehensive. When the professor reached Dean’s name on the list, he paused a moment longer than for any of the other students and looked up briefly. His eyes caught Dean’s for several seconds, and a sensation like cold slime crawled over Dean’s skin. Dean stared back as defiantly as he could manage with his insides quivering, wishing more than ever for a weapon. After what felt like an eternity but was only a few seconds, the professor turned his gaze back to the list with a sneer. Dean felt a profound sense of relief to be released and realized he had been frozen in place.

The creepy professor finished the roll call and rerolled the parchment with deliberate motions as he surveyed the classroom. After a moment, he began to speak. “You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses... I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death- if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

If Dean had been a few years older and better armed, he would have seen the sallow-faced wizard’s theatrical intimidation tactics for what they were. He might have noticed that, although Snape did have a core of real malice, the professor was playing it up for the first years. 

But Dean was eleven and already very, very frightened. By the end of Snape’s speech he had gone from frightened to terrified, fully convinced that even if this class didn’t teach black magic, the professor surely practiced it. And he didn’t even have a knife; his only defense was a stick of wood he didn’t know how or want to use and his fists. Neither seemed adequate.

“Mr. Winchester, can you tell me the difference between monkshood and wolfs bane?”

Dean nearly unseated himself at the sudden question, causing several Slytherins to snicker. “Why the hell would I know that?” he blurted out. 

The professor sneered at him, looking down with disdain. “A point from Gryffindor for swearing, Mr. Winchester. I suppose your father taught you neither manners nor anything useful.”

There was a moment in which Dean sat frozen, unable to do anything but stare. Then color raced back into his face, erasing the sickly pale of fear with angry, embarrassed red. Professor Snape was turning his attention elsewhere, probably to torment some other student, but Dean was sick and tired of these wizards’ attitudes towards him and his family. And if there was anyone to take this anger out on, then Snape, the seeming embodiment of everything Dean hated about magic, was it.

“What are you trying to say about my dad?” Dean said. To his pride, his voice barely trembled.

Snape’s black eyes glittered in the torchlight. “Sit down, Mr. Winchester.” Dean, who had not realized he was on his feet, did not move. “I would be delighted to expound upon the faults of your father and those like him, but this is a classroom. Five points from Gryffindor. You will be seated this instant.”

“Like hell I will! My dad-“

“Your father,” hissed the professor, “is a superstitious Muggle who obviously never bothered to teach you how to keep your mouth shut! Ten more points, _Winchester_ , and it will be twice that plus detention if you do not take your seat this instant and be silent!”

Dean wanted to shout at him that his father was a great man, that John saved people, that he was a hero, but then he noticed the stares of the other students. The Gryffindors looked mostly angry with him, considering he was about to lose them twenty points in one go, but the Slytherins looked positively gleeful. 

In the space of the next second Dean’s mind raced to calculate the best way out of this situation. There were only two options. Dean could keep arguing, defend his father’s honor, and completely distance himself from his class for the rest of the year. Detention meant nothing to him; he’d served it many times before. But he didn’t think he could bear to be in a hostile environment where even the people who were supposed to be on his side hated him.

His other choice was to give up now while he still could and attempt to disappear into the background again. Granted, Dean had painted a target on himself during his outburst at the sorting ceremony, but that already had begun to fade from people’s memories. If he bowed to Snape and quit arguing, he could likely get the freaky wizard kids to ignore him for the duration of the year.

The weight of his classmates’ gazes settled on him, forcing him to slowly sink into his seat even as every fiber of his being screamed at him to keep fighting, to not surrender like this. Brash and impulsive as Dean could be, however, he knew that sometimes the best strategy was retreat.

“Good,” said Snape, his voice dripping with poison and malice.

From there, the class only got worse. 

It quickly became evident why the Gryffindors and Slytherins only had one class together without any of the other houses. The Sorting Hat may have made some grand speech about the cunning and ambition of Slytherin and the chivalry and daring of Gryffindor, but what that boiled down to in a group of eleven years olds was rivalry. Dean had already heard upperclassmen talk about Slytherins like they were the scum of the earth, and he’d had a few nasty looks directed at him for no discernible reason by kids wearing silver and green ties. Inside of the Potions classroom, this animosity was exacerbated by the presence of Snape, who favored the Slytherins so exclusively Dean was further convinced he should have been burned at the stake years ago.

The classwork itself wasn’t challenging, but Dean had trouble concentrating on it. Snape had started them off with a simple potion to cure boils, but the way he was breathing down everyone’s necks one would think they were brewing up explosives. This proved to be not far from the truth, as half-way through the class one Slytherin’s cauldron exploded, showering everyone with foul yellow goop and bits of debris. Flying bits landed in Katie’s cauldron, which turned a sickly orange and began to overflow, covering the floor and surrounding students’ shoes with potion that was viscous enough to glue them in place. Dean managed to get his feet off the ground so that only his bag was ruined, but poor Katie was stuck not only to the floor but to the table as well.

Snape swooped in holding his wand like a weapon and vanished most of the mess quickly, although Katie still appeared to be covered in the ochre gunk. Instead of blaming the Slytherin, he turned to Katie. “Idiot! Why didn’t you control the spill or warn Mr. Rowle his potion was overheating? Five points from Gryffindor.” Then, he wheeled on Dean. “And you- help her clean up.”

Katie, whose potion had been decent before being contaminated, looked like she might cry. But she still had the good sense to grab Dean’s wrist and stick him to her when she saw the murder in his eyes, preventing him from leaping at the teacher.

The instant class ended, Dean was out the door. He was aware that other students were still staring at him, but he didn’t particularly care. The air in the dungeons was chokingly heavy, and he needed to get out. 

“Hey! Winchester!” The loud voice came from behind him, and for a moment Dean considered ignoring it and immediately effecting his plans for a quick escape. Instead, he turned around to find a fellow Gryffindor whose name he had forgotten was glaring at him, hands balled into fists.

“Sorry, I’m not interested in what you’re selling,” Dean said. He turned and was going to keep walking when a hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly spun him around. It would have been easy enough for Dean to slip out of the grip and break the guy’s wrist while doing it, but at the last minute he remembered Professor McGonagall’s warning and decided to wait until the other student threw the first punch.

The slightly larger boy gripped his robe, drawing Dean in to face him. “Who do you think you are, Winchester, mouthing off to a teacher like that, even if it is Snape? You just lost us fifteen points.”

“Whoa, easy,” Dean said. “I really think we should be on a first name basis if you wanna get this close, but I’m not sorry to say I’ve forgotten yours. And it was sixteen, dumbass, or can’t you count?” 

The Gryffindor pulled back his fist, but before Dean could get the fight he desired there was a burst of derisive laughter. “Gryffindors. Dumber than a sack of bricks and fighting like Muggles.”

Dean’s would-be punching bag released him to face the speaker, and Dean reluctantly turned as well. Two boys and a girl wearing silver and green were watching them, snickering. The original speaker appeared to be the larger boy with sandy hair, who was trying to appear older than he was and was looking down his nose at the two Gryffindors. The smaller boy was Rowle- the kid whose potion had exploded and ruined Katie’s, making him one of the people responsible for her almost breaking into tears. This was enough for Dean to lay into him on principle, but he held back, repeating the mantra to himself that if he could just get one of them to throw the first punch, he could tell McGonagall it was self-defense.

“McLaggen, wasn’t it?” the larger boy sneered. “Pity, I’d think that even a half-wit half-blood like you would fight with his wand and not his fists.”

“And you are?” McLaggen asked, stepping forward belligerently. A crowd of students was beginning to gather around the group, sensing that something more exciting than lunch was about to happen.

“Bletchley,” the Slytherin said, as if the name was somehow incredibly important. “Miles Bletchley. I wouldn’t forget it, if I were you.”

“Already have,” Dean shot back cheerfully. “Gosh, you’re cute. Did Barbie and Mr. Explosion come with the whole inflated ego thing, or did you have to order them special?”

“We all have names, you know,” said Rowle, glowering at Dean. “I’m-“

“Don’t bother, I’m just going to forget it too.” Dean gave his best cocky grin. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re just some asshole who blew up his potion and nearly made one of my friends cry. Which, by the way, I _won’t_ be forgetting any time soon.”

Rowle might have paled slightly, making Dean fairly certain that his grin had come out more manic than intended. Bletchley took a step between them and drew his wand, obviously ready to start a fight. McLaggen apparently decided that he hated the Slytherins more than Dean and drew his wand as well. Dean tensed at the sight of the wooden sticks. Although he figured the Slytherin probably didn’t know any real curses yet, he didn’t really want to take any chances. Mentally, he began to calculate how to get the wand away from his foe as quickly as possible.

“Miles, use your head. Is a fight with some Gryffindors worth losing Slytherin points?” The girl flipped her hair and put her hands on her hips. She looked like every popular bully Dean had ever seen in a Lifetime movie, hit by a shrink ray.

Rowle put a hand on his friend’s arm and glowered at Dean and Cormac. “Leila’s right, Miles. Leave the moron and the mudblood and let’s get going.” 

Nearly every Gryffindor gasped dramatically in unison. “You can’t say that!” exclaimed Katie, stepping in front of the three Slytherins along with several other Gryffindors. Even Cormac seemed horrified. In fact, Dean was the only person wearing red and gold present who didn’t look shocked.

It was the kind of situation that could have very quickly turned into a fight, which was exactly what Dean wanted. But his wish was denied when Demelza, of all people, stepped between the two groups.

“You ought to be ashamed of your lack of creativity,” she snapped at the Slytherins. “You think you’re so high and mighty, but you’re not even worth the breath it’s taking me to insult you.” She shot a glower of such disdain at the Slytherins that even Dean was impressed before grabbing him and Katie by the arm and pulling them away. Behind them the crowd broke up, murmuring becoming indistinct as Demelza dragged them down the hallway was surprising strength. When they were a certain distance away, she whirled about to face them.

“What were you thinking, trying to start a house-wide fight?” she exclaimed. “Dean, I get that you’re a stupid muscle-head, but Katie, you’re supposed to be reasonable!”

Dean glowered at his friend, outraged at being insulted for the umpteenth time that day. Before he could snap at Demelza, however, Katie spoke up.

“How can you not be upset?” she asked. “I get that you and Dean don’t exactly get along, but Rowle called him a mudblood!”

“Would someone please explain what that means?” Dean said, annoyed that he was the only one not in the loop. “What is it, the wizard equivalent of the f-bomb? I don’t get it.”

“It’s a really nasty name for a Muggle-born,” Demelza explained. “Uncreative pricks use it when they can’t think of a better insult, sort of like you calling someone a bitch just because they’re female and you don’t like them.” She narrowed her gaze at him, but Dean only could bring himself to glare a little in return. He didn’t feel like engaging in their friendly rivalry.

“That doesn’t explain why _everyone_ was horrified,” Dean said. “McLaggen hates my guts by now, but even he wanted to jump into that fight, the two-faced bastard.”

Katie frowned, but didn’t call him out on the slight to their house-mate. “It’s like saying someone is dirt. A lot of wizards don’t like Muggle-borns.” 

This took Dean by surprise, and he could only stare at the two girls facing him for several seconds. He had practically been dragged to Hogwarts kicking and screaming. He’d assumed that wizards enjoyed recruiting normal kids who could do their crazy magic, possibly to convert them to the evil ways of wizardry. Okay, so the ways hadn’t proved evil. Yet. Nonetheless, with all the effort various people had made to get Dean to Hogwarts, to the point of threatening to forcibly take him, it seemed hard to believe that a sizeable segment of the population would dislike him because his parents hadn’t been wizards.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said flatly.

“Obviously,” scoffed Demelza. “But that doesn’t stop people, mostly Slytherins, from believing Muggle-borns are not as good as regular wizards or feeling that they somehow stole their magic from wizards.”

“Wait, that’s possible?” Dean asked, a sudden horror dawning on him. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to be a wizard. He’s been exposed to magic much more often than most people- could he have somehow absorbed something by accident? If he could absorb it, maybe he could just get rid of it and go home.

His hopes were dashed almost immediately by Katie, however. “Of course it’s not possible, otherwise dark wizards would just go around stealing people’s magic.”

Dean threw his hands up exasperation. “So I’ve been dragged into a world where people will hate me just because I haven’t always been a freak. Awesome.”

Both Katie and Demelza looked shocked at his language, but before they had a chance to comment Ritchie hurried around the corner. “There you all are!” he exclaimed. “What happened? I was half-way to the Great Hall before I realized you weren’t following.”

“Rowle called Dean a mudblood,” Demelza informed him. Dean shifted his bag uncomfortably on his shoulder and began walking. Without discussing it the group followed, talking as they went.

“What? Is that why people were talking about a fight?”

“There wasn’t one,” Katie said. “Demy broke it up.”

“A crying shame, if you ask me,” Dean growled. “I wanted an excuse to punch somebody. Preferably McLaggen.”

This led to more questions, and Ritchie ended up getting a recap of the drama as they walked. Dean, slightly ahead of the group, was silent, letting the girls do the explaining. He was busy readjusting his understanding of wizards and trying to calm down.

It was hard for him not to be pissed off, though. He never _asked_ to be a wizard. Over the past couple of days he had begun to think that maybe it wasn’t so bad. Using magic had actually felt good- like stretching a muscle he hadn’t used in a long time. When he’d gotten the light spell to work in Dewitt’s class, the magic had felt warm and comfortable as it flowed through him. It hadn’t done much to change his view that magic was mostly evil and killed a lot of people, but he had started to come to the conclusion that not all of it was bad all the time. That didn’t mean he _wanted_ to be a wizard, though; it simply meant that he would tolerate it for as long as he had to.

His year of tolerance seemed like it was about to become a lot less tolerable, however. Dean wasn’t exactly a people pleaser, but he knew how to cater to his audience. People had always seen Dean the way he wanted them to. He’d never before had trouble at new schools getting his fellow students to like him and leave him alone. With anything as simple as telling a certain joke or smiling in a certain way he could have both students and faculty eating out his hand. 

The problem with doing this at Hogwarts was that Dean didn’t know what persona to use. There were groups of people who would dislike him no matter what, simply because his parents weren’t wizards. He couldn’t play the cool kid, or the funny kid, or the kid who was quietly there for a few days and then gone forever. He didn’t know what roles were open and safe, or how to play them. 

By the time the group had reached the Great Hall, Dean had come to the conclusion that he was stuck. He was going to have to try to scrape by just by being Dean Winchester. 

And when had that ever been enough for anyone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That speech from Snape is lifted straight from the books. I sort of imagine him using it every year, having honed it to the point that it terrifies eleven-year-olds on command.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, but this took me way longer than expected. I've been moving on to other fandoms at the moment, simply because this whole "on again off again" thing with Supernatural is putting me off. (But wow, wasn't the latest episode exciting?) I won't bother to make promises about the next update. I'm optimistic. My HabitRPG daily "Write 500 Words" is very inspirational, even if the show is not.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!

Long after the other students had gone to sleep, Dean found himself tossing and turning, mind too occupied by what had happened in Potion’s class and immediately after. Although the Slytherin’s jabs and prejudice had been unpleasant, it wasn’t really what was bothering him. He had come to the conclusion that he didn’t particularly care how racist wizards were, since he wasn’t planning on hanging around long enough to be affected by it. 

What was really keeping him awake was Snape’s attitude towards his father and the looks Katie had been giving him all through dinner. His friends had dutifully tried to cheer him up after lunch by dragging him all over the grounds, and for the most part it had worked. But during one of the comfortable silences that often fell when everyone was enjoying their meal, Katie had paused in eating and looked at him with a surprised expression before returning to her food, embarrassed at having been caught staring. But that hadn’t stopped her from watching Dean with an inscrutable expression every time she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Dean could only be left wondering what his friend was thinking, and hope that it wasn’t anything too disastrous.

That, combined with the memories of Snape’s insults, was enough to prevent Dean from falling asleep. Giving up, he got out of bed and slipped on his sneakers, exiting the room of sleeping boys quietly and making his way down to the common room. He didn’t know exactly where he was planning on going, but the thought of lying in bed until the morning was absolutely intolerable. He honestly didn’t give a damn if students weren’t supposed to be out of bed at this hour; he needed to take a walk to leave behind the poisonous cloud of unease eating at his brain.

To his immense disappointment, however, the common room was not empty. Instead, two red-heads he recognized from the start of term banquet were having a quiet, intense discussion about something that Dean couldn’t quite make out. He flattened against the side of the stairwell, but he had already been spotted.

“Well, if it isn’t Dean Winchester!” one of the said brightly. 

“What’re you doing down here?” Dean grumbled, reluctantly leaving his hiding place. As he entered the common room, one of them moved a vibrantly colored object behind his back, obviously hiding something.

“We could ask you the same thing, couldn’t we, George?” Dean looked from one to the other and shrugged, acting nonchalant.

“Nothing really,” he lied.

“Right,” said George. “Well, if you’re going to be doing ‘nothing really’ can you go do it somewhere else?”

For a second, Dean considered just exiting Gryffindor Tower while both of them were still there, but curiosity got the better of him. “Nah, I think I’ll just stick around here and let you two go about your thing.” 

He moved towards one of the cushy armchairs, but as he was about to sit down one of the twins exclaimed, “Wait!”

Dean paused and crossed his arms, glancing between the twins. “What?”

Fred and George looked at each other and seemed to reach some sort of agreement. “Look, we just finished with that chair, and we’d prefer if you didn’t sit in it yet.”

This explanation explained nothing for Dean. “Sorry?”

George pulled the brightly colored object from behind his back and held it up. It resembled a game show buzzer stuck to a piece of cardboard. “Zonko’s just released these and we thought we’d try it out. 

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Okay, but what is it?”

“It’s called the Blinding Blast Button,” Fred said, snickering. He tossed it at Dean, who jumped out of the way with a short exclamation. 

“Don’t get your pants in a knot, it’s harmless unless you sit on it.”

Dean warily picked up the button. “But if I’d sat on it…?”

“It would have gone off, released a bunch of light and embarrassing noises. And that’s the really loud one.” Fred grinned widely and beckoned for it back. Dean handed it back rather more carefully, still wary of setting it off.

“We want it to be a surprise in the morning, yeah?” George winked at Dean.

“So, it’s basically a wizard whoopee cushion?”

“A what?” the twins asked in unison.

“Whoopee cushion.” Dean was met by a pair of blank stares. “It’s a normal- a Muggle prank. You fill it with air and put it under a seat cushion and when someone sits down it makes a farting noise.”

Both of the twins snickered. “That’s actually a good one, mate,” George said. “I guess the Muggles come up with good stuff sometimes.”

“Where we could get our hands on one of those?” Fred asked.

“Uh, pretty much anywhere,” Dean said. “It’s the oldest trick in the book, right after hand buzzers and buckets of water in doorways.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Should we be taking notes, Fred?”

Dean looked between the two of them for a moment before giving in and bursting out laughing. “You, my friends, have a lot to learn.”

“Well, first things first, let’s finish the armchairs.” Fred began to strip one of the chairs of its cushion. “This’s the one Percy likes to sit in; I was voting we use the big one on him.” 

Using what little knowledge of the Weasley’s he had acquired to date, Dean asked, “Was he the annoying redhead who made everyone go to bed at nine the first night?”

“That’d be him, the git,” George said cheerfully.

Dean grinned wickedly. “Let me help you with that.”

They spent the rest of the night rigging all of the chairs with the pranks and discussing the finer points of wizard and Muggle humor. By the time they went to bed even Dean, who was used to such late nights, was covering his mouth to hide yawns. Still, he was grinning as he got into bed, worries about Potions forgotten.

He awoke the next morning to a thunderous farting noise, and hurried to the common room to see the fruits of his labor. He was not disappointed. Dean had to stand on his tiptoes to see over the crowd of uproariously laughing people, but sure enough, Percy had gone to sit in his usual chair and was now covered in colorful glowing splotches. Nearby students had been splattered as well, but even they seemed to be in on the joke.

With that good start, the day passed quickly. Dean, his three new friends, and pretty much every other student swarmed the grounds to enjoy the nice day, as if sensing that the warm sunshine was going to be replaced by a harsh autumn very soon. Katie had brought her Exploding Snap deck and Demelza had brought a blanket, so the four of them sat down to play cards. The activity distracted Dean and his friends from anything serious. Other students filtered in and out, joining in or watching, and before they knew it the sun was going down.

That night, Dean was in the common room playing solitaire and contemplating how long it was going to take him to get sick of card games. It didn’t seem as if there was anything else for a dedicated slacker to do around Hogwarts. Around him, more serious students were doing homework.

The relaxed atmosphere was broken by Katie, however, who seemed to no longer keep in what was bothering her. “Hey, Dean?”

Dean looked up from his cards, frowning at the hesitant, worried tone. “Yeah?”

Glancing around to make sure no one in common room was paying attention to them, Katie edged closer. “Listen, this, uh, might sound really weird, but I was thinking about what Snape was saying in Potions, and I was, um, wondering.”

She stopped talking suddenly. Dean’s hands gripped the deck of cards in apprehension, bending it slightly. Katie was about to voice whatever had been on her mind since last night, and Dean was not sure if he wanted to hear it. “What?”

“Well, the way he, er, talked about your dad, and um, what you said about magic, and the way you act, with the knives and everything, and, I mean…”

“Spit it out, Katie.”

She lowered her voice even further, nervous and embarrassed. “Your dad’s not, well, he’s not a hunter, is he?”

Dean stared at her. It wasn’t the question that made him sweat so much as the tone with which it was asked. Katie had spoken in the same sort of voice people use when inquiring whether someone has a deadly terminal illness. 

“What about it?” he asked, forcing as much nonchalance into his voice as possible while the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

“So he is, then?”

“Yes,” snapped Dean, apparently too loudly for Katie’s liking. She flinched and looked around as if to make sure that no one had suddenly become interested in their conversation. The fact that everyone else was either absorbed in their homework or whatever commotion the Weasley twins were currently causing didn’t seem to reassure her.

“Dean, you can’t tell anyone that,” she said. “Especially not kids with wizard parents.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” 

“Dean, I really mean it, you should be careful!”

“Katie, you’re kind of freaking me out.”

“Hunters are kind of like the bogeyman,” she whispered. “I mean, it doesn’t happen very often , but they go after wizards sometimes, and occasionally they actually hurt somebody. Most people really hate them.”

“Great. Is there anything else that will make me a pariah to you people?” Dean growled before he could think better of it. “My freckles? Green eyes? Is there a certain height I shouldn’t try to reach because it will make people unreasonably hate me?”

“Dean, I didn’t mean it like that.” She frowned at him, hurt in her eyes. “I don’t hate you.”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Dean sighed. “You don’t, but- I don’t even _want_ to be a wizard. If I could turn in my wand and robes I would.”

“Because of your Dad?” Katie asked in a small voice.

Dean hesitated. “Sort of, but mostly because magic sucks,” he finally said. Katie opened her mouth to say something, but Dean cut her off. “It’s not all light spells and turning matches into needles; it kills people. I’ve seen it, so don’t tell me it’s fluffy and wonderful and that I should be happy I could probably kill someone with my wand.”

“I wasn’t going to say…” Katie scrunched up her face as she struggled to convey what she meant. “You’re right, you know, there is a killing curse, but, I mean, it’s illegal. And, I mean, Muggles have guns and stuff, so-“

“Yeah, but it’s not the _same_ ,” Dean said, trying to justify himself. “A gun doesn’t go out and _try_ to kill someone unless there’s a person behind it, and with magic there are things that, they just _kill_ , just because that’s _what they do_.”

“Dean, those are creatures, not wizards,” Katie said. “Yes, a dragon is going to try to eat you, and during the full moon werewolves can’t control themselves, but wizards are just _people_. There’s nothing wrong with being a _person_.”

“Yes-“ Dean stopped himself from saying what he had been thinking, that of course there was something wrong with being a person if it meant being a wizard. “I know that.”

“Then why don’t you want to be a wizard?” Katie asked.

And wasn’t that the real question? There was a small part of Dean that introduced the idea that maybe he did want to be a wizard, the part that remembered how warm he had felt both times he had used his magic. This part was immediately and brutally crushed by the memory of a man having his throat cut by a creature wearing the face of his already dead wife.

Dean clenched his fists, trying to banish the image, and gave Katie a shaky half smile. “I just don’t, okay?”

“But-“

“Look, can you drop it?” Dean said irritably. “Just, don’t tell anyone about my dad, and let’s get this stupid freaking homework done, okay?”

For a moment it seemed as if Katie was going to push the issue, but finally she sighed and shook her head. “You don’t even have a textbook out, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t... have a… uh,” Dean stumbled, trying to come up with a witty retort and failing. Finally, he gave up and pointed a finger at her. “You win this round, Gadget.”

“What?” Katie asked, half laughing. “Stop being silly and go get your book so we can answer those Charms questions, Miggs.”

“Hey, only I’m allowed to use references no one understands,” Dean said, and just like that the uncomfortable conversation about his dad was dropped.

If he was being honest with himself, Dean was almost glad that his friend had figured it out. More importantly, he was glad that, aside from being worried for him, Katie didn’t seem to care. Dean didn’t know what he had done in the last week to convince her to like him that much, especially considering the way he had been acting, but he was grateful to have someone who understood even just a little.

Maybe it was the relief of finally having someone he could talk to, but that night Dean slept the best he had at Hogwarts yet.


End file.
